Erasure
by AnnabeeLee
Summary: AU John was once a slave, bought to watch over Sherlock in his adolescence. He is drafted into the war, and Sherlock erases him from his memory. Years later, John still remembers that little boy and is determined to make him remember, no matter what the cost.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Erasure  
**Rating:** R (see warnings)  
**Summary: **AU John was once a slave, bought to watch over Sherlock in his adolescence. He is drafted into the war, and Sherlock erases him from his memory. Years later, John still remembers that little boy and is determined to make him remember, no matter what the cost.  
**Warnings:** Slavery, basic mistreatment of human-like entities, mentions of quasi-cannibalism, allusions to child abuse, drug use, later sexual situations, monsters.  
**Other Thoughts:** Lots of lycanthropy-like happenstance in this here story. Basically an excuse to write a bitter love story.

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**Chapter One: The Beginning**

_ There once was a boy and his pet_  
_Bought so his mother would not fret_  
_They played with each other  
__Cared for one another  
Till the pet went to war, and the boy chose to forget  
_

The little blond boy had always been there, a loyal companion who never left his side. As far back as Sherlock could remember, _he had been there_. His first real memory outside of the haze of snippets from infancy was that of being introduced to his childhood friend. He had been napping, only three and a half years old, in the study, fallen asleep trying to decipher the big books his brother was always reading. Sherlock knew how to read of course, just some the words were large and didn't make much sense.

He had been awoken to his mother and older brother, both as serious as ever. Mycroft may have only been eleven, but he was already just like their Mummy. Between them was a boy, older than Sherlock yet younger than his brother, blond haired and blue eyed. He could be any other child but the thin deep blue mark starting from the back of his hairline, swirling behind his ear and down his neck, disappearing into his ratty shirt said otherwise.

Sherlock had seen the illustrations and listened to the stories Mycroft would read to him when their Mummy was too busy. Even at that age, he was obsessed with idea of the drevin, the tamed beast-humans who in the light of the moons turned into the most interesting of creatures. He'd never seen one before until now, and he could recall being shocked by how small the person was. He had always assumed they were all big scary adults, not nervous wide-eyed children.

"Sherlock, this is your new friend. He will watch you, protect you, and keep you safe. Mycroft's getting older now and will go to school soon, so this one," she put a hand on the boy's shoulders, who flinched at the contact, "will be your companion." Sherlock had stood up at that, going to stand in front of the sheepish boy. He pressed a finger to the newcomer's nose and smiled.

"Oh, what's your name?"

"I-" the boy started, but Mummy tightened her grip on him and stared him down.

"Quiet." She snapped at him. "Its whatever you want it to be, sweetie." She cooed to Sherlock. He considered this, his little mind whirring at all the wonderful possibilities to call his new friend.

"I'll call you Pet. Cause that's what you are. My pet." Sherlock declared proudly. The boy began to frown just a little, but hid it quickly.

"Now Sherlock, surely you can give him a better name." Mycroft pleaded, always encouraging his rambunctious brother to be more proper.

"No. I want him to be Pet." He snapped, and grabbed the boy's hand. "Come on, Pet. Let's go look around the garden." And with that, he dragged the boy out of the study and the house, eager to play with his new drevin. He showed him the garden, the stables, the fountain, the front gate, and even the house before dinner, in which he demanded Pet eat right next to him. Mummy didn't allow him at the table, and Pet had to sit upon the floor next to Sherlock seat, but he was glad all the same.

It took the boy a while, but soon he accepted the name and his new role. Sherlock had been going to meet him in the kitchen to beg for some sweets from the cook when he saw Pet talking to one of the serving girls. He stayed back, watching, thrilled at the secrecy of his position.

"Hullo. And who are you?" She had asked sweetly.

"I'm Sherlock's watcher." He answered, the words having been branded on his tongue by Mummy.

"Oh, and what's your name, love?"

"My name… my name is Pet." He said dutifully, proudly, posture straight and face set in determination. Sherlock had been ecstatic, rushing up to him and embracing him, crying 'you said it! You said it!'. He couldn't have been happier. He dragged his pet to the kitchens were he demanded the cake from the earlier evening, saying his friend needed a reward and to be fattened up.

It wasn't long before Sherlock began to request that no one call Pet his name, except for himself. Pet was his, and no one else's. The staff and his Mummy and Mycroft obliged, naming the boy 'drevin', or 'child', or even 'velfitz', (as that was what kind of drevin he was); anything but 'Pet'. Satisfied, Sherlock continued to call him such, feeling as brilliant as any three and a half year old could.

The two were inseparable, attached at the hip at all times of the day. Sherlock, with his boundless energy, would drag Pet all over the grounds and the mansion, exploring and adventuring as the days passed and they grew older. At night, Pet would sleep with him, curled around him in a protective position, ever patient for Sherlock's nightly wiggling and snuffling. The younger boy used to sleep with Mycroft, but since the elder Holmes had his studies to attend to, Sherlock was more than happy to rest upon his pet.

Sherlock taught his Pet to read; explaining that he was to read Sherlock exciting stories and fairy tales, and when Sherlock gained a tutor at the age of four, he insisted Pet attended his study sessions. Mummy wasn't quite happy with that, and said that the drevin do no schoolwork. Sherlock argued and threw a fit over it, insisting Pet needed to study too. Mummy was adamant, and Mycroft agreed, though his took his brother aside and wiped his angry tears, whispering in his ear that he just needed to be creative. Thus, Sherlock began to tutor Pet in the things he learned.

Sherlock showed him science and mathematics, basic chemistry and history. Pet ate it up, glad to learn, eager for the chance. Any other circumstance, he would never have been taught any of this, but Sherlock's enthusiastic and impatient teachings were better than nothing. He may not have been as brilliant or clever as his younger counterpart, but Pet was dedicated and thorough, and Sherlock more than enjoyed relating the knowledge he had gained each night.

Time passed so easily with Pet around to watch and to laugh with. He loved the days where it was just him and Sherlock, when Mummy and Mycroft were out of the house, and the two could play and adventure. Pet was perfect then; sturdy, reliable, feeding into Sherlock's imagination with the right words. He was never afraid to tell the younger to stop his actions, or to argue with his decisions. They would spend hours just talking about the world, Pet always chatting about the other drevins and where he was from and how they saw the world. Sherlock listened with rapt attention, ever amazed at the mysticism of their culture and powers.

It was terrible when Mummy was around. Pet shut down, tense and anxious, never muttering more than a 'yes ma'am' or a 'no ma'am'. Sometimes, she took him away for an hour or two, and when they got back, Pet wouldn't let him touch him. Sometimes, he would find bruises forming on the other boy's skin, and it would take Pet a day or two to start acting normal again. Sherlock would poke him and whine, asking why he was being quiet and where they would go.

Pet never said, and it took Sherlock another year to figure it out. It made him feel strange. He didn't know if it was anger or sadness but he didn't like it, definitely disliking that Mummy would do such things to his pet. Instead of a pointless confrontation, he buried the feelings when Mummy was around by bothering her, asking as many questions and jabbering as pointlessly as he could to keep her from paying attention to Pet.

Mycroft was better, praising Pet at every chance and encouraging their companionship. He would even defend the poor boy when Mummy found something wrong with his behavior. Pet appreciated it, and looked to awe in the elder Holmes, especially when he slipped the drevin extra nibbles from the kitchens.

"Can't have you wasting away." He told Pet once, with a wink, pressing half a loaf of bread into his shaking hands. "Sherlock would be most put out." Pet offered Sherlock some, but he declined. In fact, Sherlock had stopped eating as much himself, saving half of his meals for Pet, constantly worried that other boy might just fade into the floorboards. Pet's own portions were miniscule compared to Sherlock's, and he hated that. Pet never asked for more, but Sherlock was always slipping him as much as possible behind Mummy's watchful eye.

It continued like that for years, their childhood a series of adventures across the grounds, others just more serious than the fake ones. There was a time when they snuck out of the gates when Sherlock was seven, and went to the small pond just outside of the property. They took a thick board of wood and attempted to sail on it, though it sunk under their combined weight, as Sherlock had insisted the whole way there. Instead, spirits not in the least dampened, they put it half on shore, half in the water, and acted as though their ship had run aground.

"I want to be a pirate." Sherlock had said suddenly, dipping his feet in the water and watching Pet catch small amphibians, at the younger's request.

"We already are." Was his answer.

"No, for real. Sail around the seas, stealing other people's treasure. You could come with. Be a pirate too." He gasped at the thought, daydreaming.

"I don't want to be a pirate." Pet said quietly, giving up on his hunt and sitting next to Sherlock with his chin resting on his knees.

"Oh, well, what do you want to be?" Pet never talked about his future, only gave a sad smile when Sherlock asked.

"I don't know." His voice was quiet.

"Do you want to be a doctor? You always look though Mummy's medical books when we are in the study, and you like fixing me up when I get hurt." Pet was surprised, and amazed. Sherlock felt himself beam. Pet always liked hearing him deduced, liked it when he observed people's life stories in the way they moved or held themselves.

"Yes. I would."

"Well, then you can be a doctor on my ship!" Sherlock declared, and they spent the rest of the afternoon pillaging ships and bandaging the wounded. Pet never mentioned his wish again, but Sherlock never forgot. He made a point to remember everything Pet said or did, keeping it in a small tucked in corner of his brain to think about during his lessons and 'alone study time'.

Life continued, as it does, Sherlock forgetting pirates and becoming enamored at solving mysteries while Pet was growing bigger and taller, small tufts of hair beginning to sprout on his slightly pointed ears. Mummy warned that he would have to leave soon. He was a drevin, after all, and needed training to control his other sides. He would begin his transformations soon, and the first were dangerous and terrible. Pet was to be sent away until he could control them properly. Mummy told Sherlock he was going to preparatory school in just a few weeks anyhow, and shouldn't miss his pet in favor of his classes.

"I don't want you to go." Sherlock had told Pet one week before their departure; Pet going to the camps, and Sherlock to school. "Who's going to listen to me when I deduce someone's history? Who am I going to talk to about my experiments?"

"You'll make new friends, I imagine." Pet said bitterly. He had been grumpy as of late, his adult teeth beginning to grow in and the rage of his instincts boiling just beneath the surface.

"I don't know how." Sherlock had, in fact, only had one friend in his life, and that one had been bought for him. "Come with me."

"I can't, Sherlock. I might hurt you. I won't be able to control myself."

"Then learn to! Learn to, and then come back to me. We'll run away, and you'll be a doctor, and I'll solve mysteries, but we'll be together, okay?" He was begging, crying. Sherlock was only eleven, and could never understand why his pet had to leave him.

"I will." Pet promised, pulling him into a hug without missing a beat. "I will." They stayed like that until the maids called them in for dinner, and for the next six days, they barely let each other go.

Pet left on the sixth night, Sherlock waving him goodbye until the taxi was well out of sight. Mycroft came up to him, attempted to soothe his angry soul, yet Sherlock brushed him off. Instead, he stomped up to his room, and slept alone for the first time in eight years, head on Pet's pillow instead of his.

Years began to pass, but this time, Sherlock wanted them to. The other students hated him, with his quick mouth and observing eyes, how he could make even the robust boy burst into tears with a few well said phrases. The facility disliked him more, for he outwitted all of his teachers and had a knack for filling the chemistry room with noxious gases and spilling acid upon the tables. They couldn't make him leave, for Mummy had invested too much into the school already, and so he was stuck, miserable and bored until the summer months when he would spend hours just by the gates, waiting.

Pet never came back, Mummy always saying he still wasn't ready to whenever Sherlock asked. He knew she was lying, and demanded to go see him, but she merely scoffed and said it was out of the question.

"The dirty little hovel of the camps? Please, who would want to visit those? He was a slave, Sherlock. Find something else to obsess over." This only incensed her son more, imagining his pet stuck in some awful tent with no food or warmth. He knew this wasn't completely so; he had read as much as he could on drevin life. It wasn't much better either. Drevin training camps had little money in them, and even less space.

The shock came when he was eighteen, impatient and bored as ever, the little mysteries around him long since solved. He knew which teacher was shagging who, where all of the funding went that was supposed to go to the arts, and had even solved a long forgotten murder. It was trivial now. Sherlock had happened upon some cocaine after blackmailing some of the other students for it, and it sat neatly in his sock drawer, taunting him. He reached for it often, though the imagined disappointed look on Pet's face kept him from actually using it, but it was there just in case.

Mycroft appeared one night, grim and serious, well into his own political career.

"What do you want?" Sherlock had snapped, trying to glare him out of his room. He had been reading, peacefully, he might add, since one of the teachers threatened that if he left school grounds again, there would be a severe lack of chemistry lab visits in his near future.

"I've come to talk to you about your… your friend." Mycroft began, shifting. Sherlock was on his feet immediately.

"What? Is he coming back?" He was hopeful, delighted, but that washed away with Mycroft's expression. "What's happened? Where is he?"

"He's been drafted, Sherlock." He felt his stomach drop, and his throat tighten. Drevin drafted into the army were run down like dogs, very, very few ever making it back home in one piece. His pet was as good as gone, shot down on the front line like a mutt or used until he dropped dead of exhaustion. "I'm sorry."

"I-" He felt the knot in his throat worsen. He didn't want to believe it, but why would Mycroft come all this way to lie to him? It would've been easier just to say he was dead. Mycroft pulled him close, and held him just for a bit, though Sherlock didn't return the gesture.

That night, when Mycroft left, he caved, taking a dose of the cocaine, and lay half-delirious upon his bed. He allowed himself that one evening, to mourn his friend and to remember as much as he could, tears streaming down his face. In the wee hours of the morning, exhausted and sober, he erased Pet from his mind, let those memories and data fall away into nothingness to be replaced by meaningless things. It was easier than the alternative.

Miles upon miles away, in an arid foreign land, a young man named John Watson fought tooth and nail to earn his rights. To earn his way back to that little, brilliant boy he had promised to find again all those years ago.

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**Author's Note:** New story. Have a vague idea where its going. Would love to hear people's thoughts.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Woah! Overwhelming response from everybody there. I was physically blown away because all of you are absolutely fantastic. Thank you all for your lovely words, and I hope you enjoy.

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**Chapter 2: Reunions**

Blinking in pain in a dirty makeshift hospital, men moaning and dying around him, John awoke to a one-eyed physician grinning crookedly above him.

"Congratulations, Dr. Watson. You're going home." Even with the burning tension in his left shoulder, John was elated, smiling as a needle full of morphine sunk into his skin and he fell back under. He next fully awoke to a scar and his commanding officer awarding him with his discharge papers before being carted away into a caravan headed toward the harbor. If he was human, he would've had a ceremony commemorating his sacrifice and bravery. He wasn't human though, and he chose not to dwell on that fact as he listened to the other homeward bound soldiers grumble about having to share a boat with a 'fuckin' mutt'. He had, regretfully, removed the collar from his neck earlier, but he could still feel their sneering eyes flicking to the white ring of skin that marked him.

Ten years. Ten years spent fighting and screaming across the rocky wasteland in a fruitless land war with the neighboring country. Two on the front lines hoping to God they would promote him before the enemy brought the silver bullets. Thankfully, his superiors had found his adeptness at medicine necessary, and he was moved into medical training, though it didn't save him from the silver in the end. John supposed he should be grateful; the wound freed him three years early.

Thus, here he was, retired from the war with a minimum pension, barely a suitcase full of belongings, and no place to go. John had a plan though and he immediately set out for Holmes Manor, hitching a ride when he could, running or walking the rest depending on the night. Time was on his side, and the full moons doubled his speed, even with a bum shoulder. It felt good to change, this being the first time since getting shot. Everything was brighter, the night a simple caress as he bounded down the road into the cool night. He reached the grounds before the sun rose, and decided to spend his night a mile away. Ma'am Holmes would be less forgiving to a velfitz panting and furry at her doors then a man in the flesh.

No sooner the next morning had he made it to the familiar wrought iron gates than a guard had a pistol shoved into John's face through the bars and Ma'am Holmes appeared, haughty and headstrong as ever.

"A little far from the battlefield, aren't we, mutt?" She asked smugly. She looked just as she had when he had left, though her hair was more grey, and the lines in her face had deepened considerably. He hated her, but she hated him as well. It was a mutual feeling and possibly the only reason they could still be civil towards each other. "Still wearing the collar, are we?"

"Where is Sherlock?" John demanded calmly, not to be deterred by some rentable armed men and a sour old woman.

"You're barking up the wrong tree. Go and sniff him out if you must, but he won't remember you even if you find him." She clicked her fingers and the guards began to follow as she walked back toward her home, the large old mansion that John had spent much of his own childhood in. It felt almost wrong to be denied access to it after all he'd been through to get back.

"Tell me where he is!" He tried again, rattling the bars.

"Have a nice life." She called back, not even turning as she waved him off. John watched her disappear over the well-manicured grounds and into the front porch, gaping and panting in rage. His shoulder was smarting again as he walked off, defeated with his tail between his legs, metaphorically.

He was back where he started and found himself staying the night at a kind farmer's home not too far down the road. The husband was one of the few people who still respected the old ways, and was more than happy to allow John the wounded soldier to stay the evening. The house dog found him most companionable and his bed was kept warm by the old setter while he re-thought his plan.

Sherlock would be impossible to find on his own. John had known the man more than he had known himself, and anyone with that amount of curiosity and drive could end up at any corner of the Earth with ease. Mycroft, however, had been going into politics. He wouldn't leave the country, and John best bet was to seek out the capitol in hopes the elder Holmes had made roost there. It was as good of a plan as any and he fell asleep easily on the creaking cot, the setter grunting at his feet.

* * *

"Harvestin' season. Could use another pair of hands on the farm." The husband, Colin or something, had said during a rather large breakfast. John had been almost embarrassed at the kindness, not used to humans acting this way. He had remember his own mother filling his head with tales of the before times when they had respected the drevin, before the humans had lost their prey status and their awe had turned into bitter hatred. The fear was still there though, but that did little to ease the disdain and outright violent tendencies most of his kind saw on a day-to-day basis.

"Thank you, but I've got somewhere to be." John politely declined, warm from his first real meal in ages. Ham and eggs and toast and coffee, unlike the shit they served over seas.

"Leave him be, Colin. He's a tired man." The wife simpered, a little more tense than her husband around a drevin. He could pick up on it easily, especially the way she flinched every time he made a sudden movement. The daughters, three of them, however, watched him in rapt attention, large curious eyes eager to lap up the appearance of someone so 'strange'. They had been the ones to call him in from the road the night before, waving about a lantern excitedly and begging their father that John stay.

"You should stay a bit." Said the oldest, twelve possibly. "Rest up." The other two twittered along, agreeing and nudging him. He declined that too, no matter how promising the idea was. Sherlock was waiting for him, he hoped.

He didn't know how to thank them when he did head back toward the road, offering up the little bit of money he had for their kindness. Colin pushed it away.

"But you've done so much for me. I can't leave you with nothing."

"You've done more for us. For everyone, John." Colin insisted, and they said their goodbyes. The farmer reminded the offer was still in the air, and the girls were all but begging for him to stay. It was a tempting deal, to have a stable home and a job for the harvest, but his heart was pulling him to the city and he was eager at the thought of seeing Sherlock again.

The road was cool and quiet, the walk almost leisurely compared to the marches of his past. It was nice to back among the rolling green of his homeland. It calmed his other sides to smell the grass and the life of nature again as velfitz weren't built for the searing heat and dryness of the desert. He often felt as though on fire during the full and new moons, his fur heating him beyond imagination while he lay gasping for water or fighting just to get blood to quench his thirst.

He hitched where he could, walked what he had to, and three days later, he was at Alckos, the walled capital of Inclesten. The fading blue of his mark kept him outside, but his papers had the guards letting him in, albeit unhappily. They checked his ears and hands thoroughly, twitching at any sign of feral hair, but eventually deemed him worthy to enter. The markets and stalls greeted him, merchants and eager shoppers milling about in the late afternoon. He had no interest in them, dead set on the governmental neighborhood of the city.

"John?" Came a shrill excited voice from the crowd. He looked in time to see Harry barreling towards him before he was caught in a firm embrace. "Oh my God, it's you!"

"Harry?" John choked out, stunned to finally see his sister after so many years. He felt his throat tightened and tears came to his eyes as he buried his nose in her brown hair. He could feel her crying too as she pressed their marks together, both sighing at the bond while their heartbeats synced up to each other. He hadn't felt this in years, the comfort and familiarity of his drevin mark touching another.

"I can't believe it's you." She whispered, holding him tighter. "I thought you were dead. Oh God, John."

"I'm here, Harry. I'm fine." It was hard to let go, but the sight of her grinning madly at him again was more than worth it. The last time they had touched had been before he was sold to the slave barracks, when their mother couldn't afford the both of them and John had opted to be the one to leave, to save his sister from the fate. She was strong, but the image of her working to the bone for some unforgiving master had given him more nightmares than he needed.

She pulled him to the Underground, where the tame drevin of the city lived, the slums of Alckos. Named specifically for the fact that part of it was indeed under the earth. The city was first built before the drevin began taming themselves, and when there were too many new residents, they dug out a section for them instead of knocking out the wall. The streets were grimy and cracked, the buildings crumbling, and the only natural light came from a hole in the ceiling where part of it had caved in ages ago. He had forgotten in his absence what it was like, and his stomach gave a disgusted lurch at the place.

"Not changed a bit since you left. Though a bit of the roof's come down again." Harry mentioned with a sad smile, clutching onto his arm protectively. He may have been the soldier, but she was still the elder and the streets weren't exactly safe. In the dim light of the underground, he could see the yellow tint to her skin and sallowness in her cheeks. He knew the signs, his father had the same ones when they were little. Drevin were paid partly in gingren, a cocktail of different suppressants that made the new moon transformations calmer. It quelled the hunger and the hunting need that took over all other senses. With the effects of the drugs being a high release of dopamine, suppressing of pain, and lowering of inhibitions, most abused it to live through their day to day lives.

He'd seen these symptoms before in his father before he had died. Knew the steady decline in health and how his father had become more and more incapable of doing everyday tasks, preferring to sleep or merely sit immobile, before he finally misjudged his already high dosage. This was the life Harry was choosing, and John knew that there was little he could do to stop her.

Harry led him to her tiny apartment with barely enough room to breathe, let alone live in. It was shared by her, her mate Clara, and a sirentz family, with a father and his two children, all smashed together in a two room home that probably cost more to rent than a month's work of pay for any of them. It was the cheapest situation however, and they had learned to live with it.

One of the children, a boy of about eight or so, lay in the only bed, fevered from an infected cut upon his hand. He trembled and groaned in pain, curled up in a tight ball as the infection spread through his body. John was by his side immediately, taking what medicine he had left over from his time in the army and sterilizing the wound before forcing the child to take a few anti-inflammatory pills. It stopped the shaking and brought back the violet color back to his mark, though the boy's skin was still hot to the touch. It was all he could do for the child, and John didn't see much hope in his future.

The father was in tears, grateful as any could be even when John told him the boy didn't have much of a chance. Few had shown him any mercy in his life, and giving up the expensive medicine for his son nearly gave the man a heart attack. He blabbered at him, shaking his hand, and kissing his cheeks, all the while thanking him in his thick accent. Clara looked upon him in approval, the sharp eyes of her harpin breeding softened by his gesture. The rest of the afternoon and night was spent catching up with Harry, telling her what happened after they had last seen each other, up until this moment. He left out as few details, mostly about Sherlock, but she hardly noticed. In turn, John learned of his mother, and how she was also deceased.

"She went feral." Harry admitted, eyes misting over. "One night, trying to make it home on the new moons before she _had_ to change and three men tried to mug her. She came home covered in blood with one of the man's half eaten arm in her hand and happier than I'd ever seen her."

"Did you turn her in?" John asked.

"God no. But they found her either way a week later. Hard to miss a feral, isn't it? They put her down after that." There was a pause, as Harry collected herself. "She told me she didn't regret it. Said it felt 'natural'. Like she'd been wrong her entire life before, and now she was alright. She wouldn't stop smiling and singing, not even when they injected the shot into her." Harry shuddered at the thought, all of them did. It didn't surprise John that his mother had caved, partaken in her nature. She had never liked this life, but had stayed for her children. He thought about her, his wonderful mom, her ears, hands, and neck covered in fur and someone else's blood. John briefly touched his own ears, the smooth skin comforting him.

They had him sleeping on the floor near the second exit that led to the fire escape. He lay there, listening to the whimpers of the sick boy and the snores of his father and sister before John got up quietly, heading outside onto the rickety black platform. Greeted with the sight of the dark Underground, John almost wished he was back on the war path, but only slightly.

"Couldn't sleep?" Harry was out next to him, despite it being a bit of a squeeze. "God awful out here." She commented once settled. John nodded. "Sometimes I wonder if the world's still turning out there." He wanted to ask when the last time she had been outside the city walls was, but he decided against it. The answer wasn't that hard to guess anyways.

"It is. Barely." John replied, watching a few wandering stragglers below them. It was a suffocating atmosphere of grime and ill-repair. The city had their drevin right where they needed them, either addicted to gingren or responsible for those high on the drug to not turn feral and abandon their friends and family.

He nearly jumped when Harry ran a finger over his neck. Guilt flooded him, knowing what was to come. He had been out of his service to Sherlock for a rather long time now, any evidence of his servitude would've faded with the years. Yet here he was, the blaring white ring on his throat from the collar he had only removed since coming back into the country and Harry was giving him _that_ look, a mixture of disapproval, sympathy, and sorrow.

"Oh John. You're looking for him, aren't you? That's why you won't stay?"

"It doesn't matter, Harry." He tried, pleading in his tone for her to leave it at that. His sister was stubborn, protective of her younger sibling and angry at the situation. They both had been when they had to choose one to stay and one to go. He could still hear her screaming about how unfair it was and his mother dragging her away to leave John with the slave merchant.

"Doesn't matter? How long have you been apart from your master? Ten years? Fifteen? And you're still wearing his bloody collar? You're a free man, John. Do something with yourself. Forget him."

"I can't, Harry." He looked at her finally, seeing the disbelief and sadness in his sister's eyes. "I can't. He's the only reason I survived the camps. He's what got me through the army. He told me to find him again, and that's what I'm doing." He expected to be insulted, to hear how he was still a 'loyal dog'. He'd heard it in the camps and in the army, so why wouldn't it happen here too?

"But what if you find him, and you were just another servant? Another slave that didn't mean shit to anyone?" It cut him to hear her say it, what he'd been fearing for so long.

"I can't take that chance. How am I supposed to go on wondering he was still waiting for me too? I just need to know." He couldn't make her understand, he knew that. She didn't go through what he had, hadn't spent each day with the onry brilliant child, traversing around the manor without a care in the world. She hadn't seen the desperation in the boy's eyes when John left, nor the way he clung to him each night before they were separated. She couldn't fathom the warmth of his touch as he fixed the collar to John's neck for the last time, fingers lingering there before embracing his pet, not letting go until his mother had dragged them apart. John didn't know what had happened to Sherlock or if he even wanted John anymore, but he needed the closure. Just needed to put the dream at ease before continuing on with his life.

Harry left it alone then, seeing the uselessness of this fight before it had really begun. Instead, she put an arm around his shoulder and hugged his close for a while, silently watching the night with him. Trying to sleep this time proved easier when they finally went back inside, though he could feel Harry staring at him through the darkness as he drifted away.

* * *

The capitol building, a tall oppressive marble structure that demanded attention from any pedestrians where dozens of greedy politicians decided the fate of the very citizens outside their doors. Of course, this was only the human side of the government. Drevin decisions were made over a cheap meal and cheaper wine. At least, that was the joke. John still didn't quite know if he believed it or not. People glared at him for even being close to the shining beacon of human politics, and he ignored them easily.

He eyed it from the street, judging the best way to get in. They wouldn't let a velfitz inside straight off the street with or without an appointment, but if he made a big enough commotion, he may get the attention of Mycroft. Whether the elder Holmes decided to help him or not was his business. John didn't have many options, but out them, running into the place, yelling for help and specifically mentioning 'Holmes' seemed to be the best.

Psyching himself up for it, his mark heating at the anticipation of a reckless act, John began to march his way up the steps. If he had been feral, his hair would've been bristling and claws would've unsheathed themselves from his fingers. A very frightening sight for any humans milling about, but that's why drevin tamed themselves. That's they stopped eating humans, to integrate and become part of their burgeoning society, ironic as that turned out to be.

He made it about two steps before stopping dead, heart shooting up to lodge itself in his throat and eye going wide as dinner plates. Stomping down the very steps John was now standing on was Sherlock, the same boy he'd watched waving him manically away all those years ago. He'd grown, in all the right places, tall and thin, though not without the permanent arrogant look about him from the aristocratic breeding of his family. Draped in a thick coat and scarf, he seemed to dominate the marble staircase as he navigated them.

John breathed once. Twice. There was a mental snarl in the back of his mind as he watches the man he'd sought after, dreamed of, for so long just wandering about before him. He was frozen, however, all those years leading up to this moment and he couldn't move a damn muscle. Nervous and anxious, he watched as if in a dream as Sherlock passed him on the steps, so close yet not even seeing John. He could just reach out and touch him...

"Keep moving, mutt!" The stranger bumping into him spurred John into motion, Sherlock now walking away down the street. Quickly, John crossed the distance in a few steps, grabbing and tugging upon the coat sleeve eagerly.

"Sh-" he started, but his words died when Sherlock turned, clever eyes on him once again. It was like being exposed, dissected there on the sidewalk as a few meaningless lives passed them by. A familiar tingling upon his skin started up at the feeling of it. It passed however, the excitement dying as suddenly as it came when he realized shamefully that the pale eyes observing him held no recognition, not even a glimmer of familiarity.

"Do I know you?" Was Sherlock's question, brow furrowed as though he was searching every recess of his mind to find someone that matched John's description. Heart sinking and hope dashing itself out while heat rose to his cheeks in embarrassment, John shook his head, acting quickly to cover up his humiliation. He had been wrong.

"No." He answered, rubbing the back of his neck, and casting his gaze down to the dirty ground like the good drevin he was. Can't look a human in the eye, no matter who he was. "Ah…Must've mistaken you for someone else."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note/Apology: **Wow, I haven't thought about this one in a while. I'm very sorry to all of you who follow this story. It should be on a more regular schedule now. Though if there are elongated breaks, it's most likely because I'm also working on another project as well as this. Anyways, enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 3: Proposition  
**

"Must've mistaken you for someone else." He had been wrong. So very, awfully wrong. Why he had thought for one millisecond that he had meant anything to this man was beyond his comprehension. He was like all the others, just a delusional servant who was as disposable as the dirt on the human's shoe. He'd have to crawl back to Harry, bunker down there for a few day and hope to God he could find a way back out of the city, or at least get a job at a hospital, but the soldier ticket only reached so far, and there little guarantee he could get anywhere-

"Rien or the Isles?" The words pulled him out of his momentary panic and he looked up, confused, the question catching him off guard. Those were the names of the current territories the army had deployed its soldiers for the land war, and he hadn't quite expected to be drilled on them. Sherlock was staring at him, expectantly as if they had been in the middle of conversation and John was taking far too long to answer.

"Rien, sorry. How did you-" He tried, thrown off kilter. Sherlock stepped closer, suddenly quite interested.

"Interesting. Discharged less than a week ago, most likely for the injury to your shoulder. You should be miles away by now, out of this country, but here you are, looking for someone, possibly your family, more likely an old master. Can't imagine why." There was a scent, one that wasn't familiar to John that came upon him as Sherlock continued to analyze him. His pupils were blown wide and a frantic vibrancy was in his demeanor that John couldn't quite place with the suddenness of it all.

"Wait, what are you-" Sherlock straightened without warning, cutting John off and staring at the capitol building with disdain.

"Sorry, got to run. Keep safe. Drevin are disappearing off the streets." And with that, he off, out into the crowd as quickly as he'd come. John was left trying to catch up. What had just happened?

He stood, watching the familiar figure retreating away, disappearing into the streets amongst the constant wave of people. It was strange, after the confusion faded, how hollow and alone he found himself in that moment. How he very nearly called back out to Sherlock with his hand already raised to try and catch him once more. That couldn't have been it, could it? All that time trying to get back only to find he was no longer even a part of the man's life...

He should've planned for this better, John berated himself, nodding tersely and turning the other direction with his fingers curled into fists. Of all the things to avoid thinking of, of even given the slightest iota of possibility. He would go back to Harry's, find a cheap room, and hopefully find some sort of income. The drevin hospitals were always needing help, and he was more than qualified. It didn't guarantee anything, but it was a start, or as close to one as he could get dodging the rest of the world on paved sidewalks he didn't belong on.

He didn't make it quite far, didn't have enough time to mull over his current situation to properly bury it before two large men had him in their grasp, steering him toward the side of the road. No onlookers even paid them any mind, and John was shoved rather bodily into a sleek black car without so much of a protest on his part.

* * *

He hadn't been in a nice car like this since, well, ever. Even the one that had picked him up from the slave merchant had been ratty and old, yet this one was posh and new, smelling fresh off the lot. There was a certain mix of treated, over-scented chemicals in the air that stung his nose, masking any smells beyond the leather seats, the driver, and the car itself. Whoever wanted him was careful to cover their scent.

Next to him was a woman, pretty and young, ignoring him for the most part. When asked who he was to meet, she gave him a vague bubbly answer that neither answered his question nor eased his mind. Giving her up for a lost cause, he sat back, waiting and wondering as they swiftly approached their destination. Outside was a blur and he was too unfamiliar with the city now to even try and guess the streets and turns.

Who could even need him, a drevin? He would say another slaver, but they rarely had this kind of money, and daytime kidnapping wasn't exactly wise. Beside, John was a little old and worn for re-sale. He was literally nothing to everyone else, just another nameless face in the crowd. Had he broken some law that he hadn't know had been enacted? No standing around outside the capital building or some shit like that? It was beyond him, either way. All he could do was wonder.

They eventually pulled into a warehouse, empty as John was ushered inside, save for one person waiting patiently.

"Mycroft." John breathed, disbelief in every fiber of his being as he recognized the lean figure standing before him, a welcome smile upon his face as he leaned upon his umbrella.

"Hello, John." Mycroft greeted, watching him with interest. The last time John had seen him, the elder Holmes had been in a dark car, arguing with the camp guards while John stood and stared behind a twenty foot tall fence topped with barbed wire. Mycroft had been shooed off, and their eyes had met briefly as he drove away, Mycroft dry and warm in a car while John was muddy and soaked to the bone from the drizzling weather. Not the best of circumstances. "It's been a while. You're alive."

"Yeah, I'm a little surprised myself." John snipped, eying Mycroft's slimmer figure and the now thinning hair. If his mark craved a familial bond at the sight and smell of Mycroft, he chose to ignore it. "I'm assuming there's a reason I'm here other than to swap stories of the past decade."

"If that is what you wish, I'd be more than happy to oblige." He hadn't changed a one damn bit.

"I'm not actually that keen on hearing the tragedies of a posh political life." John spat, shaking his head.

"I assumed so. I brought you here to talk about Sherlock, if you hadn't guessed."

"Right. He doesn't seem to remember me, by the way. In case you hadn't noticed."

"Now John, that doesn't mean-"

"The hell it doesn't mean anything!" John shouted, the frustration finally boiling over. "He deleted me, Mycroft! The same way he deleted the solar system, or anything else he didn't find interesting. I fought to get back to him for seventeen years and he doesn't even fucking remember me!" The sound of his last words reverberated throughout the warehouse and John was panting, hands balled into fists. Mycroft watched him sympathetically, and John had to fight not to punch him as he rubbed a hand over his face, angered further to find tears in his eyes. "What the hell happened?"

"It's my fault." Mycroft admitted after a moment's silence as John calmed down, anger morphing smoothly into an icy cold numbness and grief.

"What?"

"I was the one who told him that you were drafted, that you would most likely never return. I assumed that he would mourn, and move on. I was wrong. I should have known he couldn't handle such an event." John had walked away during his words, pacing agitatedly. He didn't even know what do, what he could do.

"Why did you bring me here, then? Why tell me this?"

"Because he still needs you, John. You're still in there, somewhere. He's waiting for you to come back, even if he doesn't know it. He may have deleted your face but some part of him still remembers waiting by the gates every day he was home, watching the road for hours until I had to force him to come inside." John stopped at this, eyes gone wide and a little ball of desperate glee rising from his stomach.

"He did that?"

"Yes. He'd read out there, experiment. There's even a patch of dead grass from where his chair would sit that still hasn't grown back. Drove the gardener up a wall, I assure you." Mycroft let that sink in, though it didn't ease any of John's sadness. He could see the younger Sherlock sitting there stubbornly despite his family's best efforts. If anything, the vision made him feel much worse. "I know you still care. You're hardly trusting but loyal till the end. I want to help." There was something else, that Mycroft wasn't voicing, that was nagging the politician, but John would never coax it from him.

"How exactly would you do that?"

"I want to give you two choices, John. One is where we part here, and never speak again, if you wish. Your pension can't be enough to cover everything, and I'd be more than willing to pay for new lodgings and send in a good word for a new career, possibly outside the city."

"I don't need your pity, Mycroft."

"If it were pity, I wouldn't bother." Mycroft sniffed, frowning before his face morphed into something more genuine. "I knew what you went through, what you sacrificed to find yourself here today. Call it a governmental debt, and leave it at that." There was something else, John could see that, in his pleasant smile and dismissive tone. He was walking on eggshells, as Mycroft always had an ulterior motive.

"The other option?" It was a cautious question, but he couldn't help but want to know the answer.

"You move in with me." John was clearly stunned by this, taken aback by the oddity of the option.

"And why would I do that?" Mycroft sighed at John's stubborness in an overindulgent manner, examining the tip of his umbrella.

"Even if he does often scorn the idea of me being any help or continuing our relationship, Sherlock finds himself in my residence more often than not. It is in my best interest to give him what would benefit him the most, and that seems to be you, John." He peered at John over the tip, a smirk there and gone in the usual Holmesian manner. "Plus, the sooner we get the both of you together, whether in old memories or in a new companionship, the better for all of us." John opened his mouth to disagree, to argue against his generosity, but Mycroft was quick to interrupt. "Do not worry. I'm more than capable of keeping a drevin in my home. Most would think you some sort of servant, given my position. It wouldn't be a bother for either of us."

"Sherlock would wonder."

"Let him." John huffed in laughter, reminiscing about the times back in the manor when Mycroft would carefully tell him how to deal with an arrogant Sherlock, if only for a moment. It tugged at him in a pleasant manner to think on it, and he took a minute to enjoy the fleeting sense of long-gone contentment.

"You'll give me time to think, yeah?" John finally asked, back in the present.

"Of course. I will give you three days." Mycroft pulled an envelope out of his jacket, holding it out to John. "This contains my contact information and more than enough cover any expenses between now and then."

"Mycroft-"

"Just, take it, John. It's the least I can do." He did as told, feeling the sizable amount from within. He wasn't to take handouts, or anything he couldn't pay back. He wasn't a beggar, but Mycroft's insistence was best quelled early before it became forceful. Plus, he was nearing the end of his patience, and his own money was wonderfully tight.

"Are we done?" John asked, unexpectedly exhausted.

"I believe so. I'll be hearing from you very soon." John nodded, made to leave, but had to stop, a sense of politeness too inbred to ignore rearing it's head.

"Um, thanks, by the way. For, you know..." He waved a hand vaguely, but Mycroft understood.

"No need to thank me." He assured, beginning to walk off in the other direction, umbrella swinging from his hand. "If all goes well, I'll be thanking you by the end!"

* * *

Half a day later, he found himself in the Divide, the grey area between the Underground and the rest of the city where the slums of the human neighborhoods stood. No one with money would buy anything so close to the drevin, even those without it tended to go out of their way to avoid it. Here, nothing was safe. The few ferals who used the city as their hunting ground lurked the streets while the humans who were either naïve or stubborn enough to not believe that did the same, albeit with a less violent purpose.

John could see one from where he stood, a harpin sizing him up from across the street. He turned his head to show the feral his breed, and the feathers upon the stranger's head relaxed, his claws sheathing themselves back into his fingers. They gave each other a nod, and the harpin disappeared in the blink of an eye, off the find something else to satisfy his hunger. It was survival, and John had no intention of turning the man in. If the police found him on their own time, that was their business and if John heard the short-lived scream just down the street, well, he would just pretend he didn't.

John leaned himself against the wall of a tall nameless building, pulling the envelope out of his pocket for the umpteenth time, the paper already damped and crinkled from the constant touch of his skin. Mycroft said he had three days to decide. John didn't know if that was enough time.

He was hurt, in all honestly. Hurt and angry and scared. There was a howling in his chest that had nothing to do with his breed, and he could only hope that he would wake and this would all be just some terrible nightmare. Expect it wasn't. It was real, no matter how he swung it. John did have a still healing scar on his shoulder, was still a discharged soldier with no job or home, and the one person he'd hoped to see after returning didn't even know who he was anymore. Absolutely brilliant.

Why would he want to see Sherlock after this, after all of this? John didn't matter to him anymore, and probably never would. He was just what he'd always been; a wolf in sheep's clothing, yet at least the animal in the books kept his teeth and claws and dignity. Reality gave the sheep the guns and the chains, the power and the armies. What was a predator to do living in under his prey's thumb?

It was strange and disconcerting how even in his bleak outlook on life, he still wished to turn to the person who'd caused his grief for comfort. John knew, deep down, he couldn't hate Sherlock for what he did. He would always want to seek him out, no matter how he ignored it. It was a sad, lonely truth that cut deeper than any other wound.

Somewhere in the distance, John's could hear a fight, the low thrums of a pub, and the distant wailing of a siren. The sky was dark, and starless with the lights of the city, though the street lamps provided nothing natural or as comforting as the sight of the galaxies overhead. He would give anything in that moment to be back in Holmes Manor, when things still made sense.

John could hear the stumbling gait and smell the pungent odor of sweat and alcohol from blocks away, yet somehow the drunk stranger still managed to surprise him.

"What've we got 'ere?" John was immediately on high alert, the hairs on the back of his neck and arms raising as the man came much to close for either of them. The man's rather enormous girth and leering gaze were neither intimidating or as outstanding as the man was presenting himself to be. John knew, even without teeth and claw, he could take the man down without much of a fight, though he'd rather avoid it. Police wouldn't look favorably on his side. "What'cha doin' out all alone, mutt?"

"Back off." John demanded, the words coming out in more of a growl than he wanted as his mark burned a bright red. He was frustrated and angry and sad and this man did not want to fuel any of that. They were in the waning cycle of the month, and John's beast was snarling at the gall of the stranger, to think that prey could try and dominate _him. _

"Come on. Just want to talk." A hand found itself on John's bad shoulder, which he attempted to shrug off, but found meaty fingers clamping into his still painful scar. Without a thought, he swatted at the man's face with a hand, relishing when the stranger pulled back with a screech, grubby fingers gingerly touching his now twice split open cheek. John hadn't realized his claws had come forth until he felt the warm blood dripping down then.

"You littl' shit!" He found himself slammed against the nearby wall, the brick scraping his back through the course material of his shirt, the man breathing nastily in his face with wild eyes. John growled back, hackles raised as he fought himself not to tear into the man. "I'll show you to 'it me!" His fist was raised just as John was about to lunged forward, to rip and shred and pour out all of his wrath on this measly insignificant-

"Everything alright here?" They both stopped, turning to look over the man's shoulder to reveal, of all people, Sherlock, standing out of place on the dirty street.

"Ain't nothin' to you." The drunk man growled, though he did back off of John just a tad.

"No, but I'm certain the officials would be more than interested in your habit of heroin." Sherlock countered coolly. The stranger went stiff, bowing his head and backing away.

"Don't want no trouble, sir." He muttered before scampering away in a staggered manner, John watching him go while the beast in him quelled at the sight. He had almost done it. Barely two days into civilization, and he'd nearly torn a man to pieces. Nothing about that boded well for his future. He wasn't even that close to the new moon.

Instead of dwelling on it, he turned to Sherlock who was gazing at him some curiosity. John returned this easily; it was the second time they'd met in less than twenty-four hours and John was still reeling from their first encounter. He barely knew how to act around Sherlock now, being completely unknown to the man...

Right. Sherlock didn't know him, and John shouldn't either. Might as well play the part. How hard could it be to fake being a stranger?

"You're that man from earlier." John stated, cringing at the awkwardness of the words.

"Surprised you noticed. Shouldn't we all look the same to you?" Sherlock asked, watching him more intently than was strictly necessary. He was calmer than earlier, the jittery and frantic manor now replaced by a smooth impersonal posture. Both were foreign to John, as time had done something his boy that he been unable to see or prevent. John had to hold back to need to grab the man and shake him, beg him to dig down and find where John was in that massive head of his. God, what had happened?

"Yeah, I could say the same." He was granted a smile, one of interest and intrigue, and John was still glad he could coax such a thing from the other man. He held out his hand for Sherlock. "John Watson, by the way." It was a bold move, doing anything without a human's consent, even just offering a simple handshake. They weren't equals, no matter how you sliced it, but John had to keep Sherlock's interest. Couldn't be boring, couldn't be average. He knew this game well enough.

"Sherlock Holmes." And John let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, heart sinking as their hands shook. He couldn't say why he let his hopes go so high by their exchange of names. Sherlock had never known his, and he hadn't a clue as to how saying it now would spark any form of memory. Still, Sherlock's hand was cold, in comparison to John, and his own ingrained instincts to take care of Sherlock were still there as he held on just a tad too long to the other hand. He let go suddenly, leaving Sherlock gazing at him queerly.

"Sorry." John licked his lips, and shuffled a bit. "What's someone like you doing in this part of the capitol?" Changing the subject. Not suspicious at all. It was a valid question though. Sherlock's family had enough money to keep him out of the slums and he wasn't stupid enough to be blundering around the Divide on his own.

"Had to meet someone. Not very important." He lowered his voice, leaning in. "Though it seems I might be being followed." He made the tiniest gesture to behind him with his hand, and John could see the hungry stare of someone in the shadows not a few blocks down. He could feel the beast in him rising again, growling quietly as he picked up on the scent of another velfitz, feral and ravenous.

"Would you like some company?" John asked. The other drevin wouldn't move in if John was near, which was Sherlock's plan all along. John was soon tugged down the street, moving quiet and fast, passing the would-be assailant. He and the drevin caught each others' eyes for a moment, the feral shrinking back when John bared his teeth. Velfitz were somewhat like their more furry cousins. They had a pecking order of sorts, though no one fully acknowledged it out loud or gave it any real consideration. John was considered high enough, and when he staked his claim, very few others would come to challenge that.

By the time John deemed the area safe enough for the both of them, they were well out of the Divide, bordering into the middle class residential section of the city. He relaxed at the sight of well kept apartment buildings, and lonely trees planted for atmosphere. Without the impending threat of a feral and the sweet scent of a bakery somewhere nearby, he began to giggle at the ridiculousness of it all, a ridiculousness Sherlock didn't grasp.

"What?" Sherlock asked amidst his laughing fit.

"Oh, just a bit weird, isn't it? I met you this morning, and now I'm saving your ass." Not much had quite changed there, John added mentally as a more sobering after thought. Sherlock smiled though, a quick quirk of the lips that was gone in a flash.

"Yes, I suppose I owe you my thanks." Sherlock said.

"No, not really. Not that much trouble." He didn't add on the 'I missed getting you out of trouble'. It may have sounded a bit not good. "Just a walk."

"Either way, thank you." If he felt a little giddy at the words, John didn't let it show.

"I think this is where I should head back. Don't want anyone calling the police for a loitering drevin." Sherlock nodded in agreement. "It was nice meeting you, Sherlock."

"Likewise." Was there a truth behind those words, or was Sherlock lying as well as he used to? John intended to find out as he awkwardly waved goodbye.

It was the second time in one day that John watched Sherlock's back retreating down the street, though this time he was a bit happier to see it. He found himself starving, and he had a phone call to make, after all.

* * *

AN: Will I ever write a fic that isn't an AU? The answer, you will find, is a no. I CAN'T BE BOTHERED TO. Next chapter will actually have/explain drevin's a bit more and should be up in a week or two.

Let me know what you think~


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **I forgot about my week long vacation so it's a wee bit late. Since this was a spur of the moment story at the time, forgive any inconsistencies since I'm working out the kinks. Thank you.

* * *

**Chapter 4: Waning  
**

"You be careful out there. Seven people have gone missing and no one damn well knows why." Harry was bitter, biting out the words as she hands John his suitcase.

"Harry, I'll be fine." He insisted.

"If you're not, I'll hunt you down myself for being a complete ass." She was smiling, but there was a tinge of sadness to her lips as she pulled him into a hug. Clara sniffed loudly behind them, her and Harry's relationship strained at best and John's presence having provoked several fights within the last three days. It wasn't his fault, per say. John had merely been the catalyst to arguments that had been long over-due, about Harry's addiction, about how she was falling further and further under her symptoms. He worried about her, but it was her life, and he wouldn't interfere with that.

Moving into Mycroft's had been outstandingly simple, given that John had a single suitcase to his name, and Mycroft's staff had been prepping for him all throughout the night. John had arrived via another rented vehicle, which had picked him up in the Divide as the Underground did not have roads large or stable enough for any mode of transportation outside of a bicycle. Even horses refused to tread there as the collective stink of drevin had them stampeding in the opposite direction. He hadn't minded, as Harry was likely to make a scene if she had found him climbing into a strange car.

Mycroft lived in a townhouse on the near opposite side of the city, closer to the harbor of the Lake Alckos, for which the capitol was named. This was where the elite resided, or at least those who projected themselves as such. There was history here within the old structures and posh foliage, boring dull history of rich people making decisions for those without, for those deemed lesser. The kind in which was ramped up in the books to make the highers more heroic than they actually were. The kind people praised without knowing why. Humans, John had found, were strange that way.

Stepping onto the sidewalk in front of Mycroft's townhouse earned John more than his fair share of weird looks. There was even one large red-faced man he was surprised didn't come over and shoo him off the street as he huffed and gaped at John's mark and rather worn clothes, muttering 'well, I never'. John let it be. These were his neighbors now, after all.

A young maid greeted John at the door, smiling kindly. Harpin, with her yellow mark glowing softly in the daylight, she showed him inside, giving him the tour of the house. Immediately, he was set on edge. Mycroft wouldn't, would he?

"You're not a... well..." John had to ask eventually, after being shown the rather gigantic dining room. The maid was startled by his boldness.

"Oh, no. Mr. Holmes is a very generous employer. I was able to keep me and my mom's flat after my dad died thanks to him. Don't have to share or anything." John gave a pleasant nod, trying to figure out what Mycroft's game was. Nobody hired a young harpin. Well, nobody with a desire to keep their home intact. Harpin reflexes were often twitchy and clumsy until into their late twenties, the difference between their raptor-like drevin and more human anatomy too great to become accustom to early in life.

"Molly, by the way. Might as well get acquainted since your living here and all." She said with a smile, shaking his hand. Harpin were naturally feathery, their skin having an almost unreal quality to it even if tame. John had never found it pleasing himself, almost pulling his hand back too quickly, but Molly took no offense. People of her breed hardly enjoyed the soft texture of the velfitz either.

They made it once around the imposing home, before Molly ended the tour at his room, excusing herself to do chores."Mr. Holmes says you have free reign of the place, save for his bedroom, of course." She left him then, standing by the door with just his suitcase in hand.

John waited a moment, looking up and down the hall. It was quiet. Unnervingly so, and the amount of space and lack people made it seem... empty. Holmes Manor had always, at least in his memory, bustling with servants and visitors and little Sherlock pulling him around. To see Mycroft have such a large silent home was unnerving. Maybe he was used to cramped conditions and constantly stepping on the toes of his fellows, but the lack of it sent cold shivers up his spine and he opened the door in a hurry.

His room was... spacious, for lack of a better term, at least when compared to the other places he'd been staying in. There was a bed, fit for at least two, a desk, shelves, a dresser and enough space between that there was almost a distinct possibility of getting lost. He knew that in the onset of the new moons, he'd be wishing for a bigger space to lock himself up in, but this would do, especially with the strong bolted down door that had been recently replaced just for his arrival.

He could feel it now, itching at him as it did every month, tearing at his seams and ready to go. In the army, he had something to burn the boundless energy on, enemies and fellow velfitz to bite and fight to his hearts content, but here, he had nothing, really. There were the mutt fights, where the velfitz of the city too proud or too cautious to use gingren gathered to exhaust themselves, but he'd have to honestly consider the costs of throwing himself into a pit of frustrated men and women to beat and be beaten until he was too tired to even walk home. He suspected it would be worse now that he wasn't being taxed constantly by the battles and fights, but he hoped to get used to it.

For most of his first day, John was holed up in his new room, getting used to the sights, smells, and sounds of where he'd be staying. It was an odd feeling of displacement. He unpacked his things, paced the room several times, rearranged a few objects, and even his old collar found it way back into his hands. He fingered it absentmindedly, briefly fancying the idea of throwing it away. It was useless now, wasn't it?

One look at the bin had him gripping it harder, and thus the collar remained and would remain as he placed it under his pillow guiltily to touch for the comfort of something so familiar.

God, he was pathetic.

* * *

"Have you been in here all day?" Mycroft asked when he found John later in the afternoon, with some amusement. John glowered at him. He hadn't really needed to ask, seeing how his powers of observation were rivaled only by his brother. Mycroft was just doing so to be an ass. "You do have free run of the house. It was not my intention to jail you."

"It wouldn't be a very good idea to be honest. Not quite the best house guest twice a month, anyhow." Mycroft smiled, and they had a quiet, early dinner. John would later come to find that Mycroft was rarely home, and such pleasant evenings were a scarce thing.

Despite Mycroft's assurance, the house became his prison for the next few days. While a word had been put in for him, and one interview later, he had a job at the drevin hospital, he wasn't allowed to start till after the new moon, to help him adjust to civilian life. In simplified terms, he was either to drug himself, or be on temporary standby. John was fine with it, really, though the lack of things to do was rather disconcerting. He became well acquainted with the staff, offering what help he could, though they shooed him off mostly. Molly was eager to let him accompany her with the laundry, though that happened all but once in the limited free time.

Instead, he took walks around the neighborhood, mostly at night when the people were tucked away in their homes and could merely glare at him through the window. The neighborhood was quiet and peaceful, and the local dogs found him rather friendly. The peace was nice, but there was a part of him that was restless, that yearned for the excitement of the battlefield. John ignored it. He was safe here and things were calm. He'd never feel quite at home, but it would do.

A week after moving in, Sherlock visited for the first time. John had been browsing uselessly in Mycroft's study, peering at the books with little interest. Most were of some sort of political nature, texts on the history of Inclesten, the governmental movements of the neighboring countries, and even some on the systems of ancient cultures long since passed in this land. There were even a scant amount on drevin, both old cultures and the recent merging into human society. John reached for one of these, curious as to why Mycroft would even have such books.

The bang of the front door nearly had him dropping said book on the floor, and, before he could recover from the sudden noise, Sherlock came rushing into the study, stopping short of the door frame when he caught sight of John.

"Hello." John greeted awkwardly, replacing the book. Excited as he was to see Sherlock, there was still the anxiety and bitterness at the way Sherlock barely recognized him.

"You." Sherlock sneered, watching him as if a puzzle. He was weary of John's appearance in his brother's flat, and John really couldn't blame him. Even as Sherlock approached, staring him down with disdain and suspicion, John had that small little bubble of hope forming inside of him that maybe, maybe this time Sherlock might remember who he was. "Why are you here?"

"Yes, uh. Moved in, you see."

"Obvious. Why?"

"I'm a... just an old friend, of Mycroft's." _Come on_, John pleaded quietly. _You know me, just figure it out._ Sherlock didn't like that answer, not one bit, immediately finding himself in John's space, sneering in a low voice.

"I know all of his 'old friends', yet I've never met you before." He sounded dangerous, and would been intimidating to anyone but John. He had held Sherlock when he was eight and sick with the flu, throwing up his lunch and crying from the pain in his sinuses. John had stroked his back while Sherlock had insisted he was dying, and that when he perished from his plague, that John was to tell Mycroft that the watch had not been missing and that he had been the one to melt his older brother's favorite accessory. He'd seen his sad, weak little moments, and even if Sherlock did tower over him, John could never find him threatening.

"Happens." John answered, shrugging. "Been away for a while, haven't I? Not got a chance to meet you. It isn't that odd, is it?"

"You haven't been hired on as staff, and Mycroft isn't charging you or even asking for compensation, and yet he's never mentioned you, so, and I do loathe repeating myself, why are you here?"

"I'm just a friend." Because that's what he was, in the end. Not of Mycroft's, but Sherlock's and as the human stared him down, searching for a lie that wasn't there, John glared back, begging silently that Sherlock see, he was right here, the answer right in front of him if he'd only just remember...

Instead, Mycroft arrived, looking in on the scene with an air of interest and his usual noble posture. One glance at the two of them told him all he needed to know.

"Ah, John, I didn't know you'd already met my brother."

"Yes, we've met. Who is he?" Sherlock snapped back, rounding on his brother.

"A friend. Needed to get back on his feet, and I was more than willing to oblige."

"You're not one for charity. One of your brigade then?"

"Sherlock-"

"Something else? My, won't the police officer be jealous?"

"John helped me with a very hefty task some years back. I'm merely repaying the favor." Mycroft sounded exasperated. Sherlock wanted to question, but Mycroft stood him down, their own silent conversation going on with John watching carefully in the background. Sherlock was odd again. Vibrant in an artificial manner, some strange smell about him that didn't mix correctly with the rest of his scent caught John's nose.

It drew his attention back to the now arguing brothers, more specifically to Sherlock. Their discussion was non-plus, Sherlock demanding a favor, to get into some place and Mycroft vehemently disagreeing. It was his movements that drew John, twitchy and out of place. Mycroft noticed too, going for Sherlock's arm, who flinched away immediately.

"When was the last time-" Mycroft tried, Sherlock cutting him off. He glanced to John, as if remembering he was still there with a flash of humiliation before it was replaced by his stubborn expression.

"It doesn't matter. If you won't help me, fine. I'll get in there on my own." With that, he turned and stomped out, the familiarity of his fits had John rolling his eyes. Mycroft sighed at the ensuing front door slamming, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Mycroft..." John began. "Is everything... Why is he like that?"

"Perhaps another time, John. I have work to do."

"I need to know if I'm going to help."

"No." Mycroft replied slowly. "What you need to know is that complications arose not long after you were drafted. If I give you the details, you may do something rash. For now, know that it is under control and that when you need to know, you will."

"And you're to decided that, yeah?"

"Yes. I am." Was his answer, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. John didn't want to leave it at that, but Mycroft was stubborn, more so than his brother so he let it go for the moment.

* * *

John honestly shouldn't have been out, the night of the new moons upon them and his blood boiling, but after being cooped up in the house for so long, he needed to move. He had visited Harry, mainly to check on the little sirentz boy, who was making a remarkable recovery. He still complained of numb fingers, but he was awake and alert, running after his sister, though shaky on his feet. The father couldn't have been happier.

Of course, halfway through his visit, Harry, Clara, and the sirentz father made to leave, headed for the mandatory cages opened for each new moons' night. That had been part of the deal with the drevin moving in. Take gingren and lock yourself away once a month. No human trusted them to be out on the streets on this night.

Clara had demanded why he wasn't going too, now a citizen of the city, and John had replied that he had a place to hole up, and didn't need to be stuffed behind bars. That had nearly turned into a fist fight, both of their tempers running high with the sun setting outside. Luckily, Harry and the sirentz pulled them away from each other before they made a mess of the tiny apartment.

"That's enough, both of you." Harry had snapped, holding back her partner who was bearing her teeth at John with a low hiss, feathers already sprouting along her arms and neck. He hadn't come to that, a little more in control and little more cautious, but he was close. Harpin and velfitz didn't make for good allies under the best of circumstances. They were natural rivals, after all, and even years of forced decency couldn't take away the clashing instinct.

John made himself scarce after that, Harry warning him off with a look and he took to the streets, regretting his decision to visit. He had quite a walk back to Mycroft's, and he only had so much time on his side.

It was as if he had grown too big for his body, the sinew underneath the flesh bulging and ready to change. Uncomfortable and irritating, John had never been one to hold back on his changes, always opted to go as quickly as possible to get it over with and sate his darker side. His sense of smell and hearing were elevated to an alarming level, to a point where even the tiny scratches of street rat had him clamping his hands over his ears. He quickened his footsteps, eager for his too big room, the soft bed to sleep upon, and the ugly door to scratch at.

He made it to the lakeside harbor, grateful to be so close yet something caught his attention. There was the scent, familiar above the fish and grime of the port, and John stopped his hurried steps, peering around. Sherlock was near, but why? It's judgement day and the ferals would be more bold in there hunting form, coming out from the recesses of the Divide in search for an easy meal. The docks may a bit far off from there, but even the police wouldn't be patrolling on this evening as no criminal in their right mind left the safety of their home.

A muffled shout came from John's left and he immediately ran towards it, the sour hint of panic now added to the air. Sherlock was in trouble, and John was obligated to come to his aide. He came upon Sherlock easily, between the empty warehouses and the dimly lit port, streetlamps dirty and ill-used overhead. There was a man, not one John recognized, built like a train, grappling with Sherlock. Sherlock was surprisingly quick, weaving between blows and landing his own. From the shadows John watched, careful not to impede where he wasn't needed lest he got too excited and accidentally hurt someone.

A burning began in his nose, some chemical seeping into the air and Sherlock stumbled, coughing. The man had him then, landing a hit to the stomach and another to Sherlock's chin. He fell to the ground, squirming away while he fought to breath as the man drew out a gun, a malicious intent apparent even in the dark of the alley. There wasn't even a thought then, John bounding forward, the overwhelming need to protect surging through him as the stranger pointed a gun to Sherlock's still gasping form.

"What the-" He must've not seen the mark on John's face, for the gunman lowered his pistol, giving John the upper hand to knock it away. It clattered across the concrete and the gunman let out a grunt as John punched him hard in the neck. He stumbled, waving his arms wildly and catching John in the side, sending him crashing to the ground. "I'll kill you, mutt!" The man yelled, going for his gun, but John didn't hear it, the rushing of blood roaring in his ears and too late he realized his time was up.

The pain in his back and face vanished behind the white hot ravenous anger that filled him, his mark burning and stretching as the new moons finally caught hold of him. John was on his feet, his vision no longer blurred but red and his hand found its way around the criminal's neck before he could even take two steps toward his gun. The man before him went bugged eyed as the beast within John snarled in triumph, its tendrils shooting throughout his body. The undeniable feeling of being too small for his skin escalated to its highest point until he inevitably burst.

The first transformation was always the most painful, when a drevin's body was beginning to succumb to the wax and wane of the lunar cycle. After nearly two decades of changing twice a month, it had become glorious. John's bones snapped and reformed, longer and thicker, his flesh stretching with the rest of his body as fur spouted its way across his skin. The criminal whined, frightened as John lifted him into the air, new muscles barely even taxing from the minimal effort.

He roared, his nose and mouth now a muzzle filled with molars and canines ready to rip into the helpless prey. John tossed him away, satisfied by the dull thunk of his prey's head smacking on the concrete. He felt free, out of his shell and bristling with energy, no longer John but the beast he refused to accept. He took a moment just to smell, wafting in the scent of so many little cattle pressed together and no whip-handed prey ordering him to fight his brothers. This land was better than the last, familiar with the hot dry air replaced by the cool wet lakeside and the breeze rustling against his fur. It was wonderful.

A moan from the prey on the ground reminded him of his anger, and the fur along his neck stood to attention as he growled. This one had threatened him. Threatened his smaller self. His hackles raised as he stalked forward, claws clacking and scraping against the ground. The prey struggled to get up and he pounced, smashing its head on the concrete again with one large paw just to put it in its place. This one deserved to die, to be torn and ripped and left for the birds.

_Don't._ His small side feared he would eat the prey. It was not even worthy to taste, dirty and malnourished. He sniffed along the unconscious neck and down to the stomach, wondering what would cause the most pain. With a vicious glee, he decided that ripping the prey's limbs off and leaving it to die would bring the most satisfactory lesson and his teeth close around one dirty twitching arm. It would be good to spill blood again.

"John!" He looked up, ears pricking at the name. The other one, the other prey-not-prey waved at him wildly, weakly, and there was a different emotion. Bitterness. Despair. What was this creature to cause his vessel such pain? Why did the small side grow sad at the sight, hunkering down inside like a whelp? They were strong, battle hardened yet this not-prey made him...weak. He didn't like it, not at all. It needed to be shown its place too, taught where it belonged under his tooth and claw.

His small side screamed to leave the not-prey be, but he snapped his jaws in fury, mind made up and bounding after the one called Sherlock.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Ack, it's late. I know. It was a difficult chapter to write, and I'm not happy with it, but it's done and out of the way. Hopefully, you will enjoy it though.

* * *

**Chapter 5: The Itch  
**

He hadn't meant to call out. No, if anything, he had wanted to see John mercilessly maul the unconscious criminal. Curiosity was his vice, and watching a drevin become feral had always been at the top of his list. He knew the science of it, the chemical reaction to the unique hormones within homo-sapiens causing the shift from docile mutts to ravenous beasts. But to actually see it happen…

So no, Sherlock had no intention of stopping John ripping into the criminal. In fact, when he had shouted John's name, Sherlock had nearly been as surprised as the beast himself. At the time, he didn't think much of it, since now he had a hulking mass of teeth and claws staring him down and for all intents and purposes, Sherlock was still trying to regain control of his respiratory system over his spastic coughing.

The particular throat irritant that had been thrown in his face had been clever, but Sherlock should've seen it coming. Unfortunately, finding John watching from the alleyway had caused an unneeded distraction at the time.

With his legs still akin to jelly and a severe oxygen deprivation clouding his brain, Sherlock could only watch rather helplessly as four hundred pounds of velfitz blinked his way, contemplating him as if some sort of anomaly that had interrupted dinner. His mind raced to come up with a way to get out of John's attention, but, for the first time in a long while, he drew up only a panicked blank.

Still, even with every reptilian-brained instinct screaming at him 'danger' and 'run', Sherlock could only marvel at the situation. Usually, to get this close to a new moon drevin was by the cages, separated by iron bars laced with silver so that even when a harpin swiped a greedy claw at him, they would recoil in pain and shock. Here, however, was a completely different situation. The cages offered a sense of protection, superiority over the predators like chaining a wild dog with a leash and a muzzle. Without that, Sherlock was consumed by just how naturally vulnerable he was.

John snarled at him, jaws snapping loudly like a bear trap closing only on itself. It rang through the alley and reverberated through Sherlock's spinal cord, his coughing now mingling with an increase in respiration as fear froze his blood. He could barely even think beyond that he was pinned by the black-eyed stare and just how massive John had become. That base part of his psyche couldn't come to terms with that only a few minutes ago, this beast had been the unassuming army doctor feeding off of his brother's handouts. Now, he had grown, towering over him, powerful legs and flat enormous paws holding his crouching wolfish form. Covered from head to toe in fur the same color as John's dirty blond hair, John went to all fours, mark glowing from where it had also grown, swirling down each leg and painting his body with an angry blood red hue.

He pounced toward Sherlock, muscle and sinew flexing as his back legs propelled him forward. A shot of adrenaline came to him too late, and Sherlock only had time to scramble to his feet before he was hit with the equivalent of boulder smashing him against the wall. He was pinned, one enormous forearm strapped across his chest and the other clawed hand pressing his head against the scratchy concrete behind him. Sherlock struggled uselessly, feet barely brushing the ground as a hot breath blew across his throat, warm wet incisors pressing against his vulnerable flesh.

Sherlock had never felt terror like this. He'd been choked, shot at, cut, nearly overdosed, punched, beaten, and even had a knife pressed snugly against his throat by a woman with nothing left to lose. None of those times, even combined, compared to this, because although he had teetered over the brink of death in many ways, every single time he had been in control. Sherlock had been able to rely on his skill and cunning to see him through alive and well. He knew people, could accurately guess their next move, and counter it properly. He did not fear people.

Here, Sherlock had no control, was completely at the mercy of something much bigger and stronger than himself. He knew that, internalized it, and could only watch helplessly if John decided to rip out his throat. He couldn't guess at a next move, or, even if he did, couldn't stop it from happening.

And that scared every last fiber within him.

The jaws at his throat opened and teeth fit snugly against Sherlock's pulse. The paw pressing against his face tilted his head back and Sherlock could feel the vibrations from the constant snarling reverberating through him. This was it. He braced himself for the pain, for the blackout of death.

* * *

One second passed.

And then five.

And ten.

Nothing happened. Instead, John merely stayed there, little rumbles of growls vibrating against Sherlock's skin and his brain sluggishly brought itself back to the forefront. Mouth to the throat. Teeth on display and jaw set open. Warning sounds and a lack of actual permanent damage to Sherlock. Dominance behavior. John was demonstrating who was top here and who was not.

Right. Sherlock could work with this.

He relaxed himself, and John pressed harder, growling turning up a notch, his teeth tightening to the point of pain, but nowhere near enough to break the skin. Two could play at that game. Sherlock put down everything he held himself to be, and began snarling as best he could in return. Shocked, John pulled away, eyes no longer black, but some of the blue returning. He raised his hackles and gave a bark back. Sherlock returned the expression.

John huffed, whined, confused. Fur relaxed, and his head tilted to the side, giving a very domestic look to the massive animal. Sherlock continued to stare him down, for it was all he really could do. He wasn't a drevin, but the behavior was open for mimicry, and John seemed to be taking it as thus. John whimpered, not meeting Sherlock's gaze and lowering himself closer to the ground.

Amazed by the reaction, Sherlock observed, taking in the submissive stance and just wonder at the oddness of the situation. John was quick to notice the minute change in his stance, the relaxation of his body, the displacement of his early behavior, and his whining ceased. Instead, he snarled in annoyance and turned round, heading back for the still unconscious criminal.

"Stop!" John ignored him, snapping in defiance and sniffing the criminal's torso with renewed interest. Any potential care for Sherlock evaporated with the realization that he was nothing more than another human, prey with a defiant streak. "John. John!" He continued to ignore him, and Sherlock raced to find something he'd listen to. "Do you really want to do this? Be a good pet and leave it alone!" The alley became cold as the words unexpectedly left Sherlock's mouth. The beast stopped immediately, turning to Sherlock with wide blue eyes. He pawed closer curiously, head tilted. For a moment, he was human again.

"John?" Sherlock tried, reaching out to him. The beast's attention snapped forward, pupils narrowing once more as he growled, recoiling from Sherlock. The unmistakable expression of hurt had dominated his face before he turned to vanish into the streets.

With nothing holding him up and the danger gone, Sherlock's legs gave out under him finally as he slid down the wall. He gave a feeble cough, closing his eyes just for a moment to gain control back over his trembling limbs and still hammering heart. A pitiful moan sounded from across the alley as the criminal he had been engaged with earlier began to come round. He'd have a concussion, possibly a broken rib, but with the police well on their way, he'd avoid the infection and be off to prison.

By the time Lestrade and the other miscellaneous officers had made their way to the scene, Sherlock was on his feet, keeping the still squirming criminal from crawling away. Not extremely difficult when the man was still halfway unconscious and bleeding lazily.

"What the hell happened here?" Lestrade asked, taking one look at the whining man on the ground and the blooming bruise on Sherlock's chin.

"A velfitz happened by. Not exactly that surprising giving what night this is." Sherlock drawled, appearing as bored as possible. He was certainly the opposite however, cataloging the events for further examination. Lestrade's face fell in guilt as his superior pushed past him.

"Where did it go? Did you see who it was?" The man was annoying and insufferable, all packaged with a neat little hatred towards drevin that had little to do with upbringing and more to do with a harsh rejection from a very well-minded love interest.

"No. I was rather distracted at the time. Seemed to run off toward the Divide though." Sherlock answered sarcastically, pointing.

"Damn. We'll never catch the thing. Another mutt on the loose." The plump man's frown dissipated as he noticed the criminal, basically incapacitated and appearing extremely relieved that all the commotion was not another drevin. "Oh well. Still got this lot to haul in. Good work, everyone." He shouldered past Sherlock, ignoring his contributions as every other time. The insults were at the tip of Sherlock's tongue, ready to lash out, but he held back. He was already on thin ice with the police, and one lashing too far could mean having to move again if he wanted to avoid the drug search.

What he got instead of the promise of further cases was Lestrade's grateful nod and the possibility of a congratulations from his brother, neither of which were contributing to his increasingly foul mood. Being thrown against a wall by one mutt was enough to dampen his post-case high but to have his brother's personal dog acting like he needed to be coddled for his good work and praised like a child…

"Isn't it passed your bedtime?" He hissed as he past Lestrade on his way out of the alley, satisfied with the way the man's lips thinned at his words. He could see the tension barely hidden in his posture and the effects of the new moons starting to pull on him despite the suppressants. Sherlock was pleased to know he wasn't the only having an off evening.

A screech interrupted any comeback, a loud piercing noise that made every hair stand on end accompanied by the flapping of wings. Lestrade grabbed Sherlock and pulled him close to the rest of the police as a harpin landed easily on the edge of one of the warehouse roofs. Harpins were significantly more human on the new moons than their wolfish cousins. Mouths and nose now a beak and wings sprouting from their back, they were deadly hunters, their talons always open to carry off some poor fool.

"Don't move." Lestrade hissed, hand already on his gun as he and Sherlock stared down the predator who eyed them all with interest. A low rumbling came from its beak as it clicked its jaws together, taloned feet edging its way left and right of the perch, head bobbing and swaying. Dark wings fluttered and clawed hands stretched as it calculated the situation. Sherlock knew, or hoped, that there were too many armed officers for the harpin to take a chance on a meal, but these drevin traveled in flocks and with a curdling realization, it became apparent they were staring down a scout.

It cawed and lunged, cackling when the officers fell for its feint, dark feathers quivering in mirth. "Feed." It cooed in a raspy strained voice, and someone behind Sherlock shuddered. It was a feral, hungry and waiting for one of them to slip up so it could and devour them. It jumped to the left, snickering when the officers flinched at its sudden movements. One of the younger officers went for his gun, but Sherlock glared him down. A tame drevin would run at the sight. A feral will just play chicken until the ammunition ran out.

Lestrade was near shaking next to him, but in anger, not fear. His fists clenched and teeth gritted as he held back on snapping at the bird. If it weren't for the suppressants, Sherlock might've been able to see a fascinating fight ensue. It was a testament to the suppressants that Lestrade could control himself so well.

Titling its head, the harpin sniffed the air, screeching suddenly in revulsion. It drew back, arms hugging its chest and eyes nearly as yellow as its jagged mark. "Dog! Wolf!" It snapped, feathers standing on end. There was an answering caw close by and the harpin took off into the air, nearly stumbling over itself to leave. There was a collective sigh of relief when it was out of sight.

"Alright. Pack up him up and lets get out of here before more come back." Said the plump superior quietly. Lestrade exchanged a look with Sherlock, who nodded in answer.

"If its fine with you, I'll take Sherlock back to his place. He'll need a ride anyway an-"

"Fine. Fine, just be back at the office first thing in the morning." With that, Sherlock led them back to Lestrade's car, the policeman not asking how he knew where it was seeing how he'd become more than accustom to Sherlock's observational skills to even bother.

"Cheeky bird." Lestrade muttered as they peeled away from the docks. The streets were empty, given the night, and nothing impeded their journey.

"Suppressants are working better than I expected, though I'll have to tweak them some more." Sherlock noted halfway to his complex. He had been the one to devise the particular drug that could mask most signs of being a drevin and even keep the need to change on the full and new moons under control. He had been dabbling in the field already when Mycroft had made the request, and wouldn't have continued for that very reason. Unfortunately, Mycroft's threats of telling Mummy about Sherlock's cocaine habit had been what made him finally comply to his brother's annoying requests.

Lestrade was a shining example of what the combination of Sherlock's suppressants and Mycroft's work-arounds could do for a drevin seeking to cheat not only the stringent societal system of Alckos, but biology itself. The policeman could walk into a room filled velfitz, and they wouldn't recognize him as a fellow. He blended in perfectly, almost too perfectly at times.

"Tweak it? Seems to work fine. Haven't had any real trouble."

"The feral knew what you were." Feral's had a better sense of smell than tamed drevin and if Sherlock could find a correct dose to trick that as well, Mycroft might be more amiable to some his requests in the future.

"Ah, maybe. Your little wolf problem was what he smelled, I think. Hell, the whole place reeked of him." Lestrade gave Sherlock a sidelong glance. "Are you alright?"

"Hm? Yes, fine. It was nothing I couldn't handle." Sherlock caught his eye, the bemused expression prompting his annoyance "Something troubling you?"

"Oh, just, you shouldn't be sitting here right now. We should've been carting you both off in a body bag." The scrapes on his back and the heat on his throat throbbed with a stunning reminder at Lestrade's words. Something had happened, he could still see the pain in John's eyes before he had fled the scene. He didn't know what it had been.

"Probably ate a large dinner before he went out. Stop here, I'll walk the rest of it." They were only a block away, and the atmosphere in the car had turned stifling, Sherlock finding it inexplicably hard to breath again. Lestrade did as told, and Sherlock rather hurriedly made to leave.

"Who was he, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, stopping him. Sherlock could tell him about John's profession, where he lived, where he had lived, his family, his army life, and his past as slave. He could tell the policeman so many things to identify John, yet, truthfully, Sherlock didn't know who the man at all.

"I have no idea." Sherlock answered, surprisingly sincere. He left the Lestrade then, not caring when he drove off, too caught up in his own mind to notice the worried expression on Lestrade's face.

* * *

Sherlock found himself back in his tiny one room apartment, rented from a diabetic man with less than ten years left to live and an extreme tolerance for gunshots, acid burns, and odd visitors at strange hours. Of course, that might be because Sherlock had pointed out, rather loudly, that he had noticed an interesting woman coming and going from the landlord's room that was neither the man's wife nor sister. Sherlock never received a complaint after that, but that was neither here nor there.

The place was located in the grey area of the Divide that wasn't quite the slums nor quite the middle class. Mycroft would never allow him to be in such a dangerous area, though he was quite adamant about not helping pay for anything luxurious either until Sherlock decided to kick his particular indulgences. Since he was still worming his way into regular cases with the police and expanding his client pool, this was all Sherlock could afford.

John was an enigma. Nothing more, nothing less. A child slave loyal enough to come running back to the bear trap in hopes of finding his long lost master. But why? He had no reason, surely he was intelligent enough to know that anywhere else was better than here. Alckos, he had found after watching countless others, had a strange effect on its citizens, pulling them in and clutching them till it squeezed the very life out of them. The capitol wasn't walled to keep people out, but merely to keep its inhabitants from leaving.

John shouldn't be here, but he was, and why did Sherlock feel the curdling cringe of guilt settling like a stone in his stomach at the thought? He didn't know John, outside of what he had observed. He'd never met him, yet John seemed oddly close to his brother, and that look he gave Sherlock when John assumed he wasn't watching… His eyes filled with grief and disappointment, body slumped in defeat.

Sherlock must remind him of his old master, in some way, shape or form. Did he look like him? Sound like him? What was it that John saw in Sherlock, despite his callousness, that drove him to risk not only his freedom but his own life in order to aide Sherlock? And what of Mycroft, who insisted they were old friends yet Sherlock had never met nor heard of his brother consorting with anyone remotely like John ever in his memory…

Or what he had of his memory. Sherlock was brilliant. His knowledge surpassed many in an outstanding amount of areas. He trusted himself above all others, even his nosy brother, so he never had the need to question why he had erased a good portion of his childhood from his mind. Why months upon months were replaced by a whited out space. Sporadic snippets were all he could recall from ages three to eleven, and from then till eighteen were still blank spots dotting along the summers and holidays.

His mind was a well-oiled machine, precise in the details, and if he had felt the need to erase years out of his memory, then that should be it. They were useless. What could he gain from them? All knowledge related to his work was still intact, and he didn't need those years cluttering up his brain. It had never bothered him, but with the strange circumstance around John Watson, there was an itch, lurking within those stretches of nothing. Something warm, inviting, determined. Something that begged to brought out and he could access it if he just-

A car backfired outside and Sherlock opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling, fingers pressed to his lips. The clock on the dirty wall ticked to 3:17 a.m. He watched the second hand move, the minute clicking thunderous in his ears. Downstairs, the deckhand and his wife were having another row about the rent, and across the hall, the smell of cat urine and mold seeped in and mixed with the aroma of Sherlock's latest experiments. The inviting presence faded with the sensory input of his surroundings, forever out of touch despite his best efforts.

Irritating. Annoying. He didn't like the feeling and he didn't like that something in his head was inaccessible. He controlled every aspect of himself, but this new development and he hated it.

He let it be for the moment, needing distraction and moving from his spot on the bed to the kitchenette, pausing only to glance at the hidden alcove he had dug out of the wall where his stash lay. A greedy twitch in his hand had him reaching for, but he pulled away. Despite what Mycroft said, he wasn't an addict. He could ignore the cravings better than any other. His experiments needed him, and would provide the necessary distraction.

He would have to speak to John soon, either tomorrow, or the next day. He would solve the mystery of the drevin as any other, and then he could put him out of his mind, same as his other cases. The itching in his memories would stop as well and he could return everything to his sense of normality. Sherlock's curiosity over John was temporary and easily dealt with.

And that's all it would ever be.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: **As always, thank you all so much for lovely words and for reading. You're lovely people and I hope your lives are filled with candy and/or small cute animals.

* * *

**Chapter 6: Volatile**

The trip to Mycroft's had been heavy after his brush with Sherlock. John, tail between his legs and more in control of his beast, had snuck through the streets, growling at himself for being so stupid all while narrowly avoiding humans and ferals alike. Mycroft had answered the door when he had knocked, making a funny picture of a massive wolfish monstrosity banging on a door in the High Streets. Later, John would giggle at random moments, usually quiet ones by himself, at the thought.

"Well, I certainly hope you didn't kill anyone." Mycroft had drawled as John slumped into the front hall, claws clicking on the hardwood floor. He made low whine, ducking his head and attempted to lick Mycroft's face, who immediately pushed him away. "None of that. I'll take it as a no, but we'll talk more when you're...able to do so again. Off to bed with you." John huffed in return, bobbing his head and turning his nose towards his den. A bed seemed like a fantastic idea, but the smell of dinner caught his nose. Without a further thought, he slumped towards the kitchens, scents of roasted meats and hiding servants drawing him in.

A thump to his head had him baring his teeth to Mycroft who merely glared at him in return.

"Do as I say, John. Someone will bring you food in a minute." John whined but did as instructed, passing a very nervous maid on the way, whom he snapped at for the sheer joy of it. That earned him another thump to the head, since Mycroft was following close behind. Normally he wouldn't tolerate such behavior, given his state, but Mycroft was well established as higher ranking and since he determined meals and sleeping arrangements, neither John nor the beast felt it necessary to push that.

He squeezed himself into his den, it seeming a bit smaller now, but the bed was inviting and he was exhausted from playing cat and mouse with the patrols on the streets. Harpins had been screeching at him along the whole way as well, one even bold enough to try and swoop down on him. There was blood caked under his claws where John had caught the bird on the leg, and a healing cut on his shoulder where it had just missed grabbing onto his arm.

John nuzzled his bed, snuffling at the sheets. His scent was strongest, followed by the soap used to wash them and the subtle smell of the maid who had done so. Even deeper, underneath everything, was Sherlock, an aroma that long was just barely there, but enough that if he concentrated, mixed with his own. It was soothing, relaxing, and he whined as he flopped down on his bed.

* * *

_It was cold, the air dry and still with fat snowflakes floating down to the ground in a remarkably peaceful way. It was amazing the contrast between the weather outside and the chaos in the manor, where the servants were bustling to ready for a visiting dignitary. Mycroft had hidden away in the library while Mummy barked orders to her staff. Sherlock had dragged him outside after his mother had ordered him to find something productive to do and to stop tripping the maids._

_A minute into the snow, and John had just been wondering what the nine year old had in store for them on the wintery morning when a snowball smacked him in the back, Sherlock giggling behind him. What happened next was all out war, with forts and snowballs whizzing through the air. At one point, John had looked up during a lull in the battle to see Mycroft watching them, an approving smile on his face. _

_It ended with Sherlock tackling him to the ground, snow crunching under their weight as they laughed and rolled through the wet blanket. _

_"Pet, why do you do that?" John was lying on his back, Sherlock on top of him, snow falling gently on them in the frozen quiet of the grounds. John jerked away guiltily from where his nose was mashed into Sherlock's mop of a head._

_"What?"_

_"Sniff me. You always do that. I don't smell weird, do I?"  
_

_"No, you smell fine. It's how I know you're okay. You're not hurt or anything." Sherlock wrinkled his nose. A simple answer was never satisfying for him. _

_"How does that smell?" _

_"Like blood. Sweaty. Painful." Sherlock made a disbelieving noise.  
_

_"Pain doesn't have a smell!" _

_"Course it does. It's like cold, or hot. Like when you just wake up or-" _

_"You're making that up!" _

_"No, I'm not! You're nose is just bad." _

_"Alright. So what do I smell like, normally? And don't say anything stupid, like you do."  
_

_"Hm, like you need to stay out of your mother's stash of chocolates." Sherlock thumped him on the chest, glaring and pouting. John just laughed, grabbing Sherlock's little fists when he tried to hit him again and soon they were rolling about again, snow flying in all directions. They would be called in soon, for hot cocoa and blankets in front of the fire in the lounge, blissfully out of the way while Sherlock had him practice reading one of the more difficult books. John wouldn't tell him the truth, that he smelled comforting, like safe and home, that when 'Mummy' punished him and he was hurting and sad, Sherlock's scent was something he needed and craved to calm. _

_Sherlock probably figured it out later, but he never told him and John would never know for sure.  
_

* * *

The next morning, John awoke tangled in his sheets, head near the foot of the bed and his face mashed into the mattress with his old collar gripped firmly in his hand. Naked as well, since clothes never survived the change, which was unfortunate since he had rather liked that jumper. His whole body ached pleasantly, muscles over-taxed and every bone feeling raw in a spectacular sort of way. John stretched languidly, sighing as his spine and elbows popped back into place.

When he had his first change, in the dirty cramped quarters of the drevin youth camp, it had been the new moon. Given the two choices he had for a first change, he had drawn the short straw. The older teens had pitied him, as they could offer no relief or guidance. John could remember thinking he was going to die, the pressure in every fiber of his being nothing more than completely agonizing, and the actual transformation was as though he was being torn apart from the inside out. He had spent the night howling and crying, and the next two days were mostly hobbling about through his daily duties with every inch of his skin on fire.

Now, of course, it was a relief. The full moon was always easier, the change took an hour to complete and the smooth, relaxed serenity that came over him during the time was something to look forward to each month. He loved spending those nights relaxing and napping, the sleep he received the most peaceful available to any drevin. The new moon change was raw and powerful, like nothing could conquer him on that night.

Groggily, he checked the time on the wall clock, mashing his face back into his sheets when he realized it was noon. He could spend all day in bed for he had nothing to do, but soon the rumbling in his stomach had John out of bed. The shower was nice, the hot water soothing and cutting through the sweat and grime still on his skin. He stood there for a while, just thinking.

Sherlock had called him 'pet', even if just in passing. Even if it had meant nothing more than a taunt, just a word that had nothing behind it, it had resonated in his ears. There had been one deluded moment where he had felt triumph, that maybe a concussion had brought him back into Sherlock's memories. Then, of course, the rest of the sentence registered in his brain and he was brought crashing back into reality.

John hadn't realized, for all their time apart, how much he'd have missed the name. He had never thought he'd want to hear it again. To have Sherlock call him that again, now, in recognition or otherwise seemed strange and out of place. His low voice, tall stature, standing closer than necessary, possibly hands gripping John's hips while his old slave name was whispered in his ear...

John was out of the shower and dressed in record time, ignoring the sudden, unneeded ache in his groin and the want to think about what the hell his mind was supplying him. Instead, he focused on his empty stomach and the need to fix that.

* * *

Mycroft cornered him in the kitchen as he helped himself to some breakfast, starving and pliable for Mycroft's scolding.

"Exactly what did you accomplish by storming out last night?"

"Sherlock-" John tried, but Mycroft was swift to cut him off.

"I'm aware of what happened." Oh, he was not happy. Lips tightly set and fingers clenching at his umbrella despite his best efforts. "You do know that several things could have gone wrong, the worst of which being euthanization."

"I know." John nodded, humiliation causing his face to heat. He was being scolded like a child, but he had acted like one, storming out the night before in his restless agitation.

"And even if Sherlock doesn't remember, there are still people who would be rather upset by your untimely demise."

"I know."

"I would prefer, for the safety of yourself, that you keep to the house on the new moons. If needed, I could acquire something to help you-"

"What? No. Look, I'm not taking anything. It was just…" He trailed off, not sure how to say it.

"Just?" The smart retort John had to say was thankfully interrupted by Mycroft's personal lackey, Anthea appearing in the kitchen. Well dressed and still smelling of some inhibiting chemicals, she paid John no mind as she all but dragged her boss out of the room.

"The meeting with the representative has been moved by five minutes, sir. I suggest you leave now, knowing her temperament." Mycroft gave a long-suffering sigh but agreed.

"We'll continue this discussion later, John." He assured John as he passed by. Following up behind Mycroft, Anthea sparred him a small knowing wink before disappearing out the kitchen door. He'd have to thank her later.

Now, alone in the house with nothing to do and no posh politicians telling him off, John could finally relax. The day was laid out before him to be spent in the laziest, least productive fashion possible, which immediately sent him towards the study to find a book that could either let him have a good read or put him back to sleep. John wasn't going to think, wasn't going to worry about anything. That could be saved for the slow periods at his new job and when sleep eluded his grasp.

Unfortunately, what John had managed to forget was that he was currently residing in Mycroft Holmes' house and last night, he had thrown said Holmes' brother and his former master against a wall. Which meant that said brother and former master might want to have a little chat with him. All in all, it wasn't something he should've put out his mind in the first place.

John was in the lounge, reluctantly getting into a rather saucy, poorly written romance novel that he had found hidden between two political tomes. It had a terrible premise, about a harpin falling in love with a clumsy widow, and the stereotyping of feral drevin was laughable at best, but it drew him in, guiltily. He had five chapters down by the time Sherlock made his appearance.

"Ah, good morning. You're looking well." In all honesty, Sherlock vaguely reminded John of someone who had gotten hit by a freight train, which to be more honest, he sort of had. Sherlock glowered at him, a typical face he'd seen on him when he was six and unhappy with John siding with Mycroft on not dissecting his pet hamster when it passed away. Though, the effect now was somewhat muddled by the bruise on his pale chin. "Feeling alright?"

"Other than the bruises on my neck and shoulders, the sore throat, and possible head injury, I couldn't be better." He answered, frowning. John could see the outline of his teeth on Sherlock's neck and something in him purred at the sight of that, which he swiftly stamped down on. Their current relationship was unsteady enough, thank you very much.

"Mycroft isn't here at the moment, if you're looking for him but-"

"I know where my brother is." Sherlock said slowly, as if John was being slow needed to catch up.

"Right. Okay, well." He didn't know what to say. John had never met someone again after he had directly threatened them, seeing how the person generally didn't survive. Sherlock waited however, for what, John couldn't rightly say. Just staring at him. If it had been anyone else, John wouldn't have cared, yet all he could he think about was the humiliation he felt at how he had acted the night before, not that he had the best control over his actions.

John was supposed to be reminding Sherlock of who he is, what they shared, and throwing him bodily against a wall was not going to accomplish that.

"I'll just-" John stood up, closing his novel and making a beeline for the door. He'd been subjected to one talking to today, and wasn't keen on another.

"Why did you help me, John?" Sherlock asked finally. The Holmes' had a knack for it, they really did. John turned back to Sherlock with a shrug.

"Just passing by. Saw you might need some assistance." It was basically true. The other part, the 'I don't think I could live with myself if I let you die' was kept rightfully on the tip of his tongue.

"I'm not your friend. We only just met and you risked everything from imprisonment to immediate termination for someone, a human, I might add, who means virtually nothing to you. I want to know why." He could tell him. Oh, John could tell him. Yell it at him. What good would it do though? Nothing said Sherlock would take it in or believe it. Ma'am Holmes would deny everything if asked, her staff would too under her tyrannical thumb. Sherlock didn't trust Mycroft enough to believe him if the elder Holmes were to back up John's claim.

Any pictures would've been burned. Any evidence thrown away. John had to hope, dear God did he, that Sherlock could recall those memories from his mind, because what they had now wasn't working. John doubted it ever would.

"Why don't you tell me?" John asked. It was an old taunt. One John had thrown in Sherlock's face since he had first figured out the boy could see more in a person's shoelaces and worn out trousers than any detective in the world. Any question John didn't want to answer, or was too frustrated to even try, was countered with an unavoidable taunt.

"I remind you of him, your master." It wasn't the words that made his stomach twist into painful knots or makes his eyes prickle unnecessarily. It was the way it was said, monotone, obvious, in a sharp cutting manner that had his spine freezing. John had braced himself for anything, but not this. Sherlock must have taken John's tight-lipped silence as an answer. "Who was he?"

He wondered at this moment what Sherlock saw, giving him a quizzical stare. Did he see set of tension in his jaw, or the hand shaking ever so at his side? Did he notice the way John couldn't look him in the face, or how there was an embarrassed and eternally frustrated pink crawling up his neck?

"He was, um," He cleared his throat, couldn't look him in the face, "Nothing. No one. Doesn't matter anymore."

"He forgot you."

"That's really none of your business." He may be past the new moon, but the aftereffects were still there. His mark was still red, albeit fading and even for Sherlock, there was anger just waiting to lash out. John wanted to leave, get out of there before he said or did something he regretted.

"Pet. That's what he called you, wasn't it? Must of been an interesting relationship." Sherlock sneered, pleased at the way John's face froze. "That's why you ran off last night. I wondered what could make a drevin stick around here after such a rejection, but it makes sense now. The closeness, your undying loyalty to an unnamed man... No wonder he forgot you, just another slave." The few steps it had taken to cross to where Sherlock was standing did not even register in John's mind.

"You don't know anything." John growled, hand fisted in Sherlock's shirt. His teeth were bared and the beast rumbling for blood and submission.

"What will you do? Leave off where we were last night?" He was taunting him. God, why was he taunting him and why was he falling for it?

"I'm thinking about it." John warned. "You would do your best to shut your mouth, Sherlock." Sherlock opened his mouth, ready to insult him again and John braced himself to take it.

The muffled boom and subsequent house shaking was enough not only to diffuse the situation, but also to send them tumbling to the floor. Sherlock shoved him off, John not even having noticed he had covered Sherlock when the explosion had sounded.

Sherlock went to the window with John close behind. Smoke rose from within the city, sirens beginning to sound outside and the general panic just setting in. John could see the glint in Sherlock's eyes, and his next few words came to no surprise to him.

"I have to go." Into the foray, where something had been blown apart and Sherlock would not be able to resist. Like hell John was going to let him go alone.

"I'm coming with you." Sherlock merely smiled, as if he'd expected it.

"So you are."

* * *

By the time John and Sherlock reached the sight of the explosion, the police had it roped off and a crowd had gathered, murmuring and wondering loudly about the disturbance. Some officer let Sherlock through, and by association, John, and what greeted them was total devastation. Three and a half buildings had been blown to hell, shopkeeps and customers alike dead or injured and covered in dust and debris. Families off to the side were wailing and the police were doing their best to console them. Four drevin in handcuffs were being led away, fighting the whole time and yelling they were innocent.

"No need for you, freak." Said a black woman smugly to Sherlock. Some of the police snickered off to the side. "Already apprehended the mutts behind it." John had to actively not snap at her, instead watching a velfitz woman struggle against the officer pushing her along, face screwed up in anger and tears streaming down her face.

"I was just shopping! Let me go! I had nothing to do with this, I swear!" She was well dressed, relatively clean for a drevin in Alckos. Either a lucky one with a well-paying job, or a slave with a kind master.

"You were found with the detonator in your pocket-"

"I don't know how the hell it got it there! I'm a seamstress, for God's sake!" There was a snap, and her squirming turned violent when the handcuffs on her wrists broke apart. She shoved the officer off of her, canines thickening and the skin around her fingers pulling back to reveal thick claws as she turned toward the man scrambling to his feet. She advanced on him, intent clear when a shot rang out and she fell dead to the street, blood pooling around her head.

"Any of you other dogs want to try anything?" Asked the officer with the gun. When no one answered, he put it away. "Lock them up and get that one outta here."

"Wonderful job as usual, Sally." Sherlock drawled, face impassive while the woman had paled.

All of them would go through trial, and no matter the evidence, they'd be convicted. Once the citizens heard they had drevin conspirators, they'd demand blood and would receive in turn. His mother had taught him to stay away from the human's dealing, because if someone was hurt, he'd be blamed. It was a necessity to learn early on, stay away from anything that could turn violent or illegal. Drevin were surprisingly lawful despite what the statistics say.

Sherlock and him were shooed off after the shooting as the officers having no need for either of them and the crowd beginning to glare and mutter at John. Pushing through the people was hard enough, other drevins receiving the same treatment of shoving and harsh words. Journalists stared at him with greed as if he could be some sort of headline in their fantasy stories.

"Ah, Sherlock. Fancy seeing you here." A man greeted them as they finally made it through it to the clear streets. Old, and well dress with a can gripped by his side, John could smell politician all over him. They all seemed to have the same beady eyes and aloof air about them, cold practiced smiles and rehearsed charm ever waiting to be doled out. The Holmes Manor had been filled with them, of all types and races, yet John had never been able to tell them apart. "Fine day for a walk."

"Peterson." Sherlock greeted with a nod, the annoyed twitch in his eye just barely noticeable. "This hardly seems the fitting place to have an afternoon stroll."

"Well, its all very exciting. Since your mother retired, there's hardly been anything going on. Not to say Mycroft isn't doing an annoyingly good job but, there you are." He talked as though the world was made just to listen to him, his pointed nose upturned at everything and head held ever so high. "Without your mother, the drevin are getting hopeful that something might change."

"Are they?" Sherlock feigned interest better than most, especially if the person was someone useful to him.

"Oh yes." Peterson looked to John for the first time since hailing them over, eyes narrowed and a tight grimace set on his lined face. "Can't be having your kind getting too out of control, now can we?"

"No, sir." He answered, relishing in the fact that if this were a different place, he could end the man without a second thought.

"Good boy. Now I must be off, unfortunately. People to see, places to be. Laws to enact. All the usual business. Give my regards to your mother, Sherlock." He shook Sherlock's hand and began to walk the other direction, cane stomping loudly on the sidewalk. "And I would keep that man on a leash if you're going be walking about with it!"

"Charming. Who was he?" John asked, more that content to be seeing the back of the man.

"A member of the Council. Second chair. Friend of the family." No wonder he was so bold. The Council headed all of the final law-making and judicial decisions in Incleston. Looking a little funny at one, especially the Second chair, could be punishable by death depending who you were. "Before you ask, yes, he's always been an irritating rat."

"Hopefully, Mycroft won't invite him over for dinner. Might be a little bit awkward." Sherlock laughed at that, a full almost forgotten sound that had John grinning, head a little light.

* * *

"It was stupid of you to come with." Sherlock said quietly as they walked back to Mycroft's. People were twittering at each other on the streets, news of the bombing and the subsequent 'guilty' parties had spread like wildfire. He didn't want to imagine the Underground right now. Many would be hiding away in the safety of their slums, or sweating under the judging glances of their employers.

"It's fine. Not the worst thing I've seen or heard." It had meant to come out light hearted, but, given the circumstance, the words fell flat. Sherlock didn't notice, grunting in response and keeping any other rebuttal to himself. John was resigned to the silence, hands firmly in the pockets of his jacket, and letting his mind wander.

He should say something, or ask anything, but what? The humdrum of normal conversation seemed rather dull in the face what had happened. John easily got along with plenty of people, but with Sherlock, everything rode on these quiet moments. Any of his usual charm seemed to drowned by his own anxiety over ruining it. He berated himself for it, silently, but the words still stuck in his throat and they arrived in front of Mycroft's without another syllable uttered.

"John, about last night." It uttered slowly, as if Sherlock were struggling what exactly to say, how get whatever was in his mind out. John just shook his head.

"Yeah, sorry about that, I just-" He honestly didn't see it coming, not the fingers on his chin tilting his neck, nor the soft press of lips to the corner of his mouth. The motion was quick, premeditated, and John would have to question if it had actually happened. Sherlock pulled back, the barest hint of a smile on his face.

"Thank you." He said, quietly, a near whisper that sent a shiver down John's spine as his fingers dragged off his chin.

"Yeah, no problem." Sherlock never heard it though, and John was left standing outside of Mycroft's home, watching Sherlock disappear into the darkness, mouth hanging open slightly. There was tingling on his cheek where Sherlock's fingers had been and in his lips. He staggered back inside the house, as if drunk and knew without a doubt he was inexplicably fucked.

* * *

**Question: **I might be starting up a new chaptered story soon set in the same sort of AU as Clipped (though not completely? Different world, lots of same ideas) if I can think of an actual plot. Would that be of interest to you readers? Let me know! **  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Notes:** The chapter in which everybody comes to the wrong conclusion. Also, I may be posting on my tumblr (link on authors page) a thing I wrote like ages ago on Scandal in Belgravia. It breaks down the episode into fragments and showcases how the episode is not about Sherlock and Irene, but about his and John's relationship instead. If this sort of thing interests you, let me know as I am still on the fence about posting it. You can P.M. me, or tell me on my tumblr, if you wish.

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 7: Interlude  
**

John was decidedly not hiding. He was staying out of the way, in a secluded corner of the study as servants ran amok the rest of Mycroft's abode, panicking about some important person coming to visit. So he may have dragged a chair to the corner, and he may be pretending to read and maybe the door was locked, but that didn't mean anything.

The noise of the staff yelling and cleaning had given him a headache and the cleaning agents had made him sneeze. The study was quieter and forgotten about, especially in his little corner. Even Molly, who was generally amiable, had shooed him away as soon as he had entered the house from his jaunt with Sherlock, which he was not mulling over. No, he was merely staying out of the way while the staff had a collective panic attack.

There were many other things to worry about, the still image in his head of the drevin woman's head colliding with a bullet being one of them. Another being who in their right mind would have the gall to bomb any part of Incleston's empire. Not only is the country one of the most powerful and intimidating, but they were also at peace with most other formidable enemies, the land war to the South non-withstanding. Even those countries did not have the time, energy, or audacity to try anything so stupid. So, who did?

Of course, coming upon that inevitably led him back to Sherlock, seeing how the man had little to say on the matter. It wasn't until after the event that John began to notice the silence on Sherlock's part during their visit to the blast site. He knew Sherlock, and the man should've been raising all sorts of questions and deductions over the matter, yet he had said almost nothing of the sort. Instead, he had been rather interested in-

John growled to himself. No, he shouldn't be indulging in that. Shouldn't have allowed it to even happen. How he had given Sherlock such a wrong idea was beyond him, but this was not how he had wanted their relationship to go. He cared for Sherlock; that was true. That didn't extend beyond friendship, or what a slave could care for their old master. He didn't want anything beyond that.

There may have been a time when, in the loneliness, he may have imagined what an older Sherlock may have looked like. Those imaginings may have taken a turn out of hand a handful of times, but John was never one to analyze them beyond delusions cause from the extreme environments he had been in at the time. Some of his partners may have been taller, or paler, or had dark curly hair, but, again, that was nothing more than coincidence or preference.

The stillness of the house finally roused him from his thoughts, a suspicious hush before the storm. It lasted for five minutes that ticked by sluggishly as he sat attentive in his corner before-

"Not what they need right now! Your agency-" A woman's voice, bursting with anger and passion.

"I was not informed of any conspiracy. There is a distinct possibility that-" Mycroft, level and calm.

"-Three of my people arrested! One dead! No one came to me for anything-"

"-Were just doing what was best at the time."

John hadn't realized he had begun to move until he was already standing in the doorway to the lounge, where Mycroft and the woman were just settling down into their seats. The woman, who had her back to John, waved a dismissive hand at Mycroft's words, opening her mouth and taking out what seemed to be an opaque plastic retainer. She set in a glass of water on the end table by her chair, sighing as she rubbed her jaw.

"Much better, don't you think?" Even from his angle by the door, John could see the glint of white sharp little teeth and the fading glow of an orange mark. He must've made a sound, because both her and Mycroft looked his way.

Goosebumps rode up his arms and the hair stood on end for good reason. A feral sirentz. Mycroft had a feral sitting an arm's length away, unguarded or chained, and no one to help him if she chose to attack. Rugged fangs and claws, and they arguing over politics as she wasn't able to rip him apart any given second. The scene couldn't actually register in his head as John stood slightly dazed by the sight.

"John, this is Irene Adler, my representative for the Underground." She beckoned him closer and held out her hand, which he strode forward and took with some apprehension. She wasn't a threatening person on the surface, being thin and of average height, but it was the way she held herself even while sitting, tall and powerful with an unblinking gaze that gave off an aura to counteract her less than dominating appearance.

"So, you're the one hanging around with Mycroft's little brother? How quaint. I suppose he needs someone to keep him from wandering into any unsavory territory." She eyed him with mild interest, something he wished wouldn't be happening. Mycroft was extremely relaxed to have such a creature sitting in his home. He wasn't even looking at her, attention drawn to John, which, to be frank, was a very bold thing to do.

"You went to the blast site. What can you tell us about it?" Mycroft questioned. John had to take a minute to overcome the oddity of it all before he could even answer, not letting Irene leave his peripheral vision.

"We got there just as they cuffed the conspirators. One struggled, and was shot for her effort. That was about it before we were asked to leave." Mycroft took this in, nodding and making a mental note, and Irene all but hissed, turning back to the politician.

"They have no real evidence, yet they killed someone on the spot. This was not case of arresting suspicious parties, but of rounding up the easiest targets." That was John's thoughts as well, having been there himself.

"They did say they found a remote detonator on one of the criminals." He supplied, though neither Irene nor Mycroft found this in the least bit helpful.

"I'm not saying the agent's behavior was proper, but given what they had to work with-" Mycroft tried, though was interrupted swiftly.

"Someone slipped something the size of bread roll into her purse, and she pulls it out wondering what it is. I want this fixed, Mycroft, and her family to be compensated properly."

"I cannot just make favors appear out of nowhere. If the jury finds them guilty, then I cannot counteract that." Irene didn't take this well, and John had to wonder if she knew one of the people under suspicion.

"No? I'm curious what Sherlock might think of this, or what his head might look like on my best platter." Irene had hardly spat out her words before John was out of his chair, the scrape of its legs on the hardwood floor echoing in the room. "Sit down, dog, or I'll have you fixed as well." She didn't even bother to glare at him as she said it, still waiting on Mycroft's answer.

"John." Mycroft reprimanded when he continued to glare at Irene. The name hit him like a whip, an old learned response putting him back in his chair. "Sherlock is a moot point. We have agreed on this on several occasions. If he is to come under any harm by your doing, then our deal if off and you're on your own."

"He could solve my case. Seven missing persons and now a terrorist attack leaving one of my people dead and three more primed for the rope."

"I will get him involved when I find it to be necessary. I merely ask for your trust and patience."

"There's never been any trust between us." She smiled snidely, her fingers shifting restlessly upon the arm of her chair. Claws scraped upon the wood as she continued. "The day we go for each other's throats is a day I dream of nightly." Mycroft had no response, and John held himself back from making a comment of his own. He was outmatched here.

Irene let herself not minutes later, claiming she had no more need to waste time with the 'bull' and his 'sheepdog'.

"Why do you have her around?" He had waited until the front door had sounded, and the house had breathed a collective sigh of relief.

"Irene Adler is the foremost intelligence and power of the Underground. She's made a habit of making herself indispensable to everyone. I had been looking into allying myself with her for a while, but there were too many pieces in her favor before she became feral. Now, however-"

"You help her hide in plain sight, and in return, she's the envoy between you and the Underground." John finished for him, grimacing.

"Precisely." John went to the lounge window, watching as the figure of Irene disappeared into a cab. He'd would have to keep an eye out for her.

* * *

Affection had never been a strong suite for Sherlock, or even an area which he had much experience. He avoided it if possible in all circumstances, having never needed a reason to seek it out. He enjoyed his solitary life as it left him with very few people to get in the way of his deductions and various habits that might seem more unseemly or unhealthy. It was enjoyable, quiet.

Yet he kissed John, not out of his own predetermined choice. It had been spur of the moment, after a few hours with John at his side. He had meant to berate the man some more, possibly put him down, see how far he could push John till he snapped again. The John's earlier reaction had been surprising. Even Lestrade, who was more his equal than an ex-slave, would back down from his taunts, yet John rose to them spectacularly, telling him more about the drevin than John ever could.

Sherlock had never done this, had not even planned to do so. He replayed it over and over in his mind as he rode to his building. The walk to the crime scene had been tense and quick, as both parties had a direct interest in it. John had surprised Sherlock actually, his own worries over the bombing being relevant.

_"Who would strike Alckos?"_

_"I would've have thought you of all people would have some sort of guess."_

_"Yeah, but why hit the market with the capitol building being a few blocks away?"_ Sherlock had struck the idea down, naming off at least three reasons it could have been a mistake, and was subsequently disappointed when John quieted to think it over. Even still, he had experienced a surprising amount of pride at John's observations. The foreign emotions did not stop there however as they had made it to the scene.

There had been protectiveness when the crowd around the crime scene had targeted John for their resounding anger, anger over Peterson's obvious jab at John's status, worry when John had backed down from said insult like a scolded dog. Sherlock shouldn't have been experiencing any of these. John was nothing to him, and yet he was reacting to him as though they'd been companions for years. These were learned responses he was experiencing, but in all logic, Sherlock shouldn't be dealing with any of it.

It was as if he was divided, the logical, reasoning side adamant that John was just a stranger and his itching subconscious pressing that he was more. Out of the cab and directly in front of his building, the cold thought hit him. He wasn't falling in love with John? Not after so little time knowing him, no, he couldn't be. Love was for the losing side, and Sherlock had come to the conclusion he was incapable of such a thing a very long time ago.

But what if? It plagued him on the walk up the creaking staircase. It brought him no warmth but worry.

The door to his flat was ever so slightly ajar, a little nick on the wood near the handle and the still lingering smell of perfume mixed with a hint of lake water. It was distraction enough and he entered casually as he could, heart thumping rampantly as he crossed the threshold into the dark room. A flick of the switch had the light bulb blinking into life, Irene Alder stretched out languidly on his sofa, a dark gleeful expression on her face.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes." She greeted, not bothering to stand from where she was holding his furniture hostage. Sherlock stilled, contemplating how this next few minutes might go. She was seated at angle, with her back tucked into the corner of the sofa, legs crossed yet taking up a considerable amount of room. She was relaxed, yes, but there was a manic twinkle in her eyes that spoke of mischief and superiority. Nothing about her seemed ill-tempered or hungry, but Sherlock would keep something silver in reach at all times.

Sherlock still had a scar from the last visit that had gone sour, though that had been mostly his fault.

"Why don't you be good boy, and make us some tea. Dealing with your brother always leaves me with a foul taste in my mouth." She tossed him her empty prescription bottle, which he caught with ease. There was a sour note there that was well-deserved on Mycroft's behalf, but even that didn't deter from what was making her so happy. Sherlock would be hearing something from her soon and hopefully he could worm it out of her to keep this brief.

To some extent, Sherlock enjoyed their visits, for Irene was something to be admired, albeit from afar. She had the Underground and half of the rest of the city under her thumb though shear tenacity and cunning. If you wanted something to happen in Alckos, anything that went outside of the Council, you went to Adler. A smuggling in. An escape. A political movement. She had the connections to make it happen, and make it happen fast.

This was why Mycroft needed her, why Sherlock needed her. For his brother, she could be a courier of information to the drevin whom he could not communicate with. For Sherlock, she could provide the needed whispers and rumors of his talents in order to get his clients. When she became feral, or 'enlightened', as she described it, Mycroft was more than willing to help now that he had some leverage against her. Irene, being desperate enough to want to stay in the city, had agreed to the terms set forth by his brother.

"It will take me a minute to measure out your next dosage." Sherlock told her, already reaching for the bottles and herbs needed. Everything was unlabeled, the containers exactly alike, as per Mycroft's request and his own pride. He knew these ingredients all too well, not needing a cataloging system to aide him. They both agreed keeping the formula a secret as to dissuade the curious (Irene) from figuring out how to make it. Each subscription lasted only a month and it kept their relationship even and consensual.

"I've got all night." She watched him work from her perch, eyes ever calculating to catch a single mistake. The suppressant Sherlock had crafted was simple and yet effective. It could hide a tame in plain sight, or keep a feral from being detected. For Irene, it kept from other drevin sniffing her out and dulled the craving for human. Everything was ground together in a soupy like mass, and had to be ingested daily. The taste was said to be hard to swallow, but worth the nausea.

"You're friend John came as a surprise to me." Irene finally said after a long period of silence, teasingly. Mycroft must've invited her into his home, drawing John out of where ever he would mostly likely be having a miniscule mental breakdown over Sherlock's forward behavior. He'd have to find out about that later.

"He's not my friend." Sherlock was quick to dismiss. John was an experiment, a case, at best, despite what his emotions may be trying to push. "He's confused. I'm merely indulging him at the moment."

"Oh? Interesting. How long have you known him?"

"Not long."

"Oh, now Sherlock, you're usually a much better liar." He turned to her, brow furrowed.

"What makes you think I'm lying?" Irene searched his face, a split second of realization dawning on her, though it disappeared after only a moment.

"Nothing. My mistake." She answered, and Sherlock turned back to his work. Whatever conclusion she had come to had little interest to him at the moment, as her constant watch over his movements was beginning to make him panic. Not purposefully, the instinct was merely to strong to ignore. His heart rate began to elevate and his respiration did too once his body realized that there was feral drevin not seconds out of reach. Even the silver knife in his pocket, which he had slipped in there as casually as possible did not calm the call to bolt.

Fifteen minutes passed, and the prescription was ready, dispensed into the glass bottle. Relief trickled into his body as he twisted the cap close, turning to give it to Irene.

"Why aren't you investigating the disappearances? I thought that would be right up your alley." The swiftness and timing of the question threw him for a loop.

"People go missing all the time. Not exactly surprising when their drevin." He answered, with only a moment's need to regather his thoughts.

"Seven in two months? With no word to their families? It isn't at least a little suspicious?" Irene stood, a daunting figure despite the height Sherlock had on her.

"Could be anything and therefore nothing. Here." He held out the re-filled bottle. "This is what you came for, so, if you would be so kind." He indicated the door with quick jerk of his head. Irene contemplated the bottle for a moment before swiping it from his grasp, slipping it into her coat pocket.

"When you do look into the disappearances, and I'm certain you will, you know where to find me."

"Unfortunately, I think I can make do without the help. I enjoy keeping the teeth out of my neck." Irene gave a coy smile, brushing the back of her knuckles down his chest. The movement wasn't sensual as it was a threat, the tips of her talons just peeking out from her fingertips.

"Come now, I would make a special case for you." The pocket knife Sherlock had slipped into his trousers was pressed to his throat with a blinding speed. The choked noise coming from his mouth only made her grin curl into something more feral. She leaned in closer, voice lowering. "I'd keep you hanging on the edge until you were begging for it to end, Mr. Holmes."

"Have a good night, Miss Adler." Sherlock managed, and Irene stepped away. She left, finally, exiting the room but not before embedding the blade in the door frame, a little pouch attached to it. Sherlock left it there, know what was in the parcel. Their dealings were not a one-way street, and his payment would be stashed away soon enough. Instead, he closed the door before collapsing in his chair, rubbing at his throat.

Irene was worried, the frantic way she pushed the missing persons on him made that obvious, and she too smelled a rat in the day's bombings. His interest was already piqued but he would have to wait for the police to get involved, and fail, before he could make his move. It wouldn't help him to solve a nameless case. All Sherlock would need was to be patient, and with John, he had something to distract him till that time came. He would be fine, and hopefully he could keep the needle out of his arm.

Thankfully, a little over a week later, the prisoners disappeared in broad daylight.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:** Monster chapter. Holy cow. So this is late because SOMEONE got kidnapped to Las Vegas for their birthday, so I actually have a viable excuse this time. Very sorry about that. As always, thank you for your interest and continued reading of this story! Enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter 8: Apprehension  
**

The city was in an uproar. The Underground was hiding itself from the rest of the citizens as the humans were all but rioting in lieu of the recent developments. With the marketplace in shambles and the Council drowning in the self-righteous demands from the loudest of their people, it was little wonder the humans hadn't marched into the Underground themselves to take swift justice. In the week following the attack, the drevin hospital John now worked for saw more and more of their fellows admitted for mugging, poisoning, and 'accidents'.

Humans feared the drevin. The drevin feared the humans. It was all but chaos.

Then the prisoners disappeared at twenty minutes past noon, right out of their cells. The public reaction was still on stand-by as the Council and Mycroft kept the news under a tight control. The only reason John knew was because he had been having a chat with Mycroft on his first day off when Anthea had all but burst in, as short of breath he had ever seen her, eyes wide and panic set in her usual uppity tones as she relayed the news.

"What do you mean they are gone?" Anthea shrugs at her boss' question, shaking her head.

"Lestrade is asking for Sherlock. Half of the force is, actually." She's more collected now, finally noticing John seated across from Mycroft. "Oh, hello." John returned the pleasantry, finding her much more amiable as of late since she began remembering his face. "What shall we do, sir?" Mycroft immediately turned to John, a slight upturn to his lips as he spoke.

"John, how would you like to run an errand for me?"

* * *

Which was exactly how he had found himself standing outside the shabby building with a file in his hand and a nervous twitch in the other. John hadn't seen Sherlock since the other week, too busy with his new career to catch him on his routine visits to bother Mycroft. In the nine days that had passed, as his mark faded swiftly to the cool blue as they approached the full moons, John had little time to think.

Definitely not enough time to wonder about his burgeoning affections for Sherlock. Nor what might be the man's motives, or what might happen when they were to meet again. It all hit him now though, which he swallowed down defiantly as he entered the building. He was sent with a purpose, not to worry over trivial things.

Frankly, the whole building smelled of cat urine and mildew, making his nose itch as he climbed the stairs. Why in the world did Mycroft allow his brother to live in such a rundown place?

John knew the answer. Mycroft had offered to help his little brother, and Sherlock had stubbornly refused. Simple as that. Still, the depressing atmosphere and uninspiring view should be enough to run anyone out if they had a chance. Sometimes he had to marvel at the stubbornness of a Holmes.

The door was unlocked when he got to it, opening it himself when no one answered his knock. A tiny living space cluttered with only God knows what met him as he entered. John carefully stepped around piles of papers and books, curbing his curiosity to glance over to the kitchenette where beakers and glass tubes took up any and all eating or cooking space.

Sherlock was to be found dead to the world on his small sad excuse for a bed, as much a part of the strange and macabre collection as the clutter around him. John set the folder in his hands down onto a stack of what appeared to be dictionaries in varying languages before leaning over to observe Sherlock in his sleeping state.

When they were children, John had spent much of his early morning hours watching over his charge before the energetic child was up and ready for the day. Even if he had wanted to get up before Sherlock, which he most often did not, moving would mean waking the younger much too early, and thus leave John with a disgruntled Sherlock for the rest of the day. Not exactly the most ideal of situations which John had avoided like the plague.

Not much had changed in Sherlock's sleeping habits since those days long gone. He was still a deep sleeper, as John had not awoken him upon entering the tiny apartment. He still slept curled into a ball on his side, a position he usually took unless under very certain circumstances. When John had been watching over him, he always thought it was just a better position for Sherlock to keep him from running off, seeing how the child would keep his arms firmly wrapped around him for fear that his pet would do just that.

John had a few choice opportunities to do just that, but, even when the wrought iron gates had been wide open and everyone was looking the other way, he never could bring himself to go through with it. There had been once when he had been standing on the threshold, one step from being free. It had been just before sunset, a visiting dignitary had just left and everyone had already gone back inside leaving John by the boundary line. It had been spring, the scent of the flowers in the nearby woods thick and inviting, carried on a sweet breeze that he could imagine would take him back to the capital, to his mom and sister. John remembered imagining running all the way back to them, to finally be free of the Holmes family, and to be back with his own.

John had forgotten through the years why he did not take that one crucial footstep, why he ended up that night as Sherlock's over-sized teddy once again. It hardly mattered now, thinking back. He was here, and the past could not be changed.

In his reminiscence of days gone by, John hadn't noticed when his hand had begun toying with Sherlock's hair, an old habit of his. The soft dark curl running through his fingers softly, gently working out any knots that he came across, gently massaging the scalp for no other reason than to enjoy the sensory pleasure of it. He jumped up, surprising himself and Sherlock who made a low whining sound of disappointment, shifting on the mattress.

"Why'd you stop, pet?" It was asked in such a low quiet voice, John had nearly missed it, but his heart stuttered to a full stop when he registered the words. He couldn't have, could he? No, Sherlock was still asleep, somewhere between dreaming and waking, and John didn't have the capacity to be hopeful again, only to have it be dashed away.

John stared, watching closely as Sherlock slowly awoke, blinking at him for a few moments before frowning.

"What are you doing here? No, don't tell me. Something happened, and Mycroft wants me on it." Sherlock glanced around, spotting the folder in the stack near him before flopping back down on his mattress. "Hand me the folder and be on your way." He rubbed at his eyes as John moved automatically, handing him the folder.

Sherlock seemed to take no notice of his searching expression, nor the fidgeting in his stance. John took a seat, gingerly upon a seat that had some how managed to be free of debris.

"Sherlock, when you were coming round, you said something. Do you remember what it was?" The man didn't even both glancing away from the papers in his hands, squinting at them through still tired eyes.

"Yes, I told you to leave, but you don't seem to listen very well for an ex-slave." John had to keep himself from rolling his eyes at the obvious jab.

"No, I meant before that, right as you started waking up."

"I don't recall anything. Why?" Sometimes, he wondered why he tried. How much more disappointment could he take before he eventually left this all behind?

"I just thought- It's nothing, sorry." John stood up, looked around for a minute, awkwardly. He should leave Sherlock to his papers.

"John," Sherlock drew his attention back. Was this worry in Sherlock's expression? Disgust, maybe? He didn't know anymore, John realized, trying to swallow past the knot in his throat. Sherlock was as much a stranger to him as John was to Sherlock. "You realize I'm not him, right?"

"Yes, of course." John reassured the lie, again, flatly. Sherlock must see through it every time, but he would come to the wrong conclusion over and over if something didn't change. "Sorry to bother you. I'll just- Oh, a Lestrade wants you at the Cages. The prisoners escaped." That had Sherlock on his feet in a matter of seconds, looming over John with a manic glaze to his eyes.

"What do you mean, 'escaped'?"

* * *

And that's how they came to be on the dingy transport boat, water gurgling around them and a courageous gull cawing at them from its perch on the railing right next to John's seat. John had tried shooing it away, but it had nearly bit him for his efforts so now he just sat, having a staring contest with a cheeky bird. Sherlock paid neither of them any mind, hands clasped before his mouth as he thought, fixated on the Cages looming before them, growing ever larger as they approached.

Cages was just a nickname. In reality, the place was the location of the drevin prison, adequately named Wailing Isle. Once, many years ago, it had been a naval base, strategically located out in the lake which separated Alckos from the neighboring territories before the empire had been fully realized. Now, with the land beyond the lake turned over to Incleston, the base had become a prison for the Underground, and also the location of where the drevin were locked up every month.

They docked with relative ease, the trip taking no more than fifteen minutes. An officer greeted them at the short wooden jutting, one John didn't immediately recognize. His scent was muffled, a jumbled mess much like Anthea's, though still unique. The man seemed overjoyed to see Sherlock, not something John saw in most people in Sherlock's general proximity.

"Bout time you got here. Whole place has been in an uproar for two hours." The officer peered at John curiously. "Who are you?"

"John Watson, a colleague of mine. John, this is Lestrade." Sherlock answered for the both of them. Their individuals greetings to one another were cut short by an impatient Sherlock. "Where are the guards who were on duty?" The next few events happened in a whirlwind of energy, Sherlock dissecting the two men with a vicious tenacity, not single moment of hesitation despite the rather overabundance of firearms strapped to their persons.

From them, he gleaned, more the police, that they had been making their rounds, having passed by the three prisoners cell before moving on to the rest. There had been an odd sound of grating, which they had took for the usual creaking and groaning of the old, rusted building. Still, a sense of something inexplicably wrong had hit them and they went to check the cell again, only the find the prisoners gone from their cell, no sign of a forced exit, only an odd smell of something burning and the sink overflowing. The amount of time this had all taken place in was around thirty minutes.

They were in the cell now, John careful not to touch the silver-infused bars, for even their very presence was giving him a rash. The floor echoed loudly with every step, the stone covered in a thin pool of water from the aforementioned sink, which had been turned off by now. John could hear the pleas of the prisoners begging to be saved as well, the guards having threatened to shut it as they had passed. There was a reason drevins tried their best to stay out of here for most of their year, why there were always cells open for new criminals.

The Cages were run by the Agency, a group of trained humans skilled in 'feral handling'. In more simple terms, this meant that they had little to no sympathy for drevins and were more than happy to use their silver to deal with them. When Alckos had a problem with a feral, it was the Agency who answered the call, eager to run down anything that might even resemble a feral. In the prison, most drevin didn't make it past their first year, usually being shot for 'defiance' or for attacking a guard when they couldn't sanely take the brutality anymore.

It wasn't so much a prison as a slaughterhouse.

"We already searched the whole room. I don't see what else there is to find." Snipped one of the officers, the woman from the other day, as Sherlock bent closer to inspect the floor, undeterred by her comments. He had already checked the walls, checking every inch, but now he traced his finger along one of the cracks in the stone floor, bringing it to his nose to sniff. They observed him knock upon the floor as well before placing his hands upon the particular section he was invested in before pushing upon it.

There was a definite grating noise as the stone shifted beneath his fingers. Sherlock straightened then, passing by John and the officers to ask something of one of the guards standing by, who left for just a moment. When he returned with two crowbars in his hands, Sherlock swiped one from him without hesitation.

"John, if you could please help me with this." Unsure, but trusting Sherlock's judgement, John took the crowbar, settling it where Sherlock directed. The guard joined in, and together they began to push, an answering creak reverberating loudly through the room. It took several attempts, the mass of rock and steel refusing to budge until a second guard joined in. With one final act of force, they were able to grab the rusted side, revealing a cleverly hidden hatch and an iron ladder leading to an empty black pit.

Sherlock slipped down into the hole, John quick to follow, torch in his hand lighting the way. It was a tunnel, leading back into the city, ancient and forgotten underneath the jail. Other hatches were present, each sealed off when the base turned over to house the drevins each month, or so Sherlock presumed loudly.

"There were rumors, stories, legends, that underneath the city, massive tunnels were built in case of a full scale invasion. They could evacuate everyone out of the capitol to a safe location, one of the three forts out in the forest beyond. There had never been any evidence, at least that I could find, but here it is." Sherlock's expression was that of a child who had broken into the candy shop, with all this new information laid out before him. He walked forward, hand tracing along the wall as he examined the details. "Whoever it was had been well-equipped if they re-opened this one so quickly."

John stayed close to his companion anxiety beginning to close in on him. The spaces were wide, allowing for him and Sherlock to stand side by side, but the dark and the suffocating quiet were pressing in. He could smell nothing but lake water, rust, and old concrete, the infusion of the three covering everything else. The unshakeable quiver of something watching them crept in on him till he was nearly screaming with it, pressing just a mite closer to Sherlock as they continued.

The thoughts of having nowhere to hide, and only one way to run pounded in his mind, each step bringing them closer to nothing.

"Calm down, John. There's nothing here." Sherlock reprimanded when John bumped into him for the hundredth time.

"I can't smell anything. Not even you." He swallowed, casting the torch around just to be sure. "I won't know if something's down here."

"The only 'thing' that should be down here is our prisoners, and their accomplishes. What do we really have to fear?" Bold words that proved false within mere minutes of their utterance. They didn't hear the hissing at first, nor the warning sound of talons scraping along the tunnel walls until it was almost too late.

John saw it before Sherlock did, grabbing the man and hurtling them back the way they'd came with a startled yell. He didn't look back as he dragged them forwards, the slapping of feet following their own enough to drive him into the tunnel. The screech behind them was sounding closer and closer every second as they neared the open hatch and John's only thoughts were to get Sherlock _away _ from it, to keep him safe.

John pushed Sherlock onto the ladder first, finally glancing at their pursuer, the light from the torch glinting off the feral's eyes, starvation written in its sunken cheeks and desperation in its expression. John climbed the ladder hurriedly after Sherlock, not quick enough to escape a bony hand grasping onto his ankle, thick talons digging into his skin.

"Fuck!" He shouted, grabbing onto the rim of the hatch, trying to pull himself up while the feral yanked him down. There was glee in its face, no longer a drevin, but an animal, driven by hunger and insanity of being stuck in the tunnels. It didn't matter John was one of its own kind, the creature too lost to care what its meal might consist of. John tried to kick it off as Sherlock grabbed his arms to pull him up, but even weakened by starvation, the feral proved too much.

John fell, hard, onto his side in the tunnel, heading hitting the ground in splash of water. For a dazed moment, he seized up, expecting the feral to advance and take advantage of his vulnerable position. He waited, for the talons to tear at his stomach, for teeth to sink into his throat, but when it didn't come, he opened his eyes.

The feral was on the ladder, grappling with Sherlock, batting him away, snarling and spitting as he clawed at Sherlock's arms. It dawned on John then, as a horrific realization. He wasn't trying to kill, he was trying to reach the surface, to escape. The desperation John had mistaken for hunger had been hope to finally be free of his underwater prison. He wasn't down here by choice, someone had trapped him to keep them out. John stumbled to his feet, wobbly and limping yet sure as he made for the ladder himself just as the feral reached the landing above. He heard someone yell to 'shoot it' as John gripped the first rung.

"No, wait-" He tried, but the gunshot had already sounded by the time he was halfway up, a crumpled body falling to the floor with a thump. Cold swept through him at the sound, and he had to pause to gather himself before finishing his climb.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked when John got to his feet, eyes frantically assessing him but John had other worries on his mind besides his battered body.

"'M fine." He breathed, panting in anger. His head was pounding, his ankle was stinging, and the scar on his shoulder was alight with a flaming ache, but none of that mattered. He turned to glare at the guard who still held the smoking pistol, a satisfied expression settled on the man's face. "What the hell did you do that for?"

"It was dangerous. All ferals are to be shot on sight. City law." The guard all but quoted at him, fingers tightening upon his standard-issue pistol.

"He was trying to- shit!" John attempted to take a step forward, but nearly fell as his injured ankle gave out. Sherlock was there, suddenly, holding him up and steady.

"I think we need to take you back home, John. You've obviously suffered enough for the day." Sherlock murmured to him, the guards eyeing the both of them suspiciously. "Possibly concussion, sprained ankle, I'll take him back to his residence, if you don't mind." He said this louder to rest of their audience.

"See that you do." The gun-toting guard snapped. Sherlock began helping him limp back outside to the boat. The adrenaline was fading and the pain was soaring to new heights, but he ignored it in favor of leaning upon Sherlock as they exited the godforsaken place.

* * *

Sherlock hadn't expected any of it. Not the tunnel, nor the feral, nor the violent reaction he had when he saw John disappear into the dark, hands slipping from his own. Seeing the feral replace John on the ladder, fighting with it to get back at John despite the claws slicing up his arms, they had been responses, no forethought went into them as he had found himself once again acting without intention.

Sherlock hadn't been the one to yell for the feral's execution, but it had been a near thing as he, just for a moment, believed John to be dead. It had been an irrational belief, he knew that, berated himself for it but when John had reappeared, injured and pissed off at the guard, Sherlock would not have been able to describe his relief even if he had a decade to do so. It was inexplicable, the range of emotions he went through for one simple stranger.

A selfless, broken stranger, but one no less.

On the boat back to the city, Sherlock had been careful in his quiet examination of John, noting the slower that average healing rate, the way he gingerly kept adjusting his left shoulder, how he could barely walk on the one ankle. Sherlock kept his distance, however, as they were accompanied this time by a range of officers, a number of whom would seek any excuse to discredit him. He didn't want to ruin his fragile reputation with vicious rumors from any of the more spiteful people around him.

Another boat passed them, headed toward the isle as they sped for the city. The Council's sigil was branded upon it like a beacon, though who was riding in it, Sherlock could not tell. If they were heading there, they would find the tunnels, piece it together and Mycroft would find out before Sherlock reached him first. Surely, Mycroft had told them there was someone already on the case. They would have no need to send a Council member out to the drevin prison.

Unless they were already informed, Mycroft had already accurately deduced what had happened from a prior knowledge and now the Council was going to assess the situation and how far they would have to go to cover their own deluded footsteps. Mycroft would've tried to stop it, his soft spot for the Underground's problems leading him to wanting the case solved, but if the Council had something to hide...

Sherlock would have to wait to speak to his brother to know for sure.

Once on they had left the docks, Sherlock having given Lestrade his word he'd divulge any new evidence once he found it, and he had helped John into a cab, he began to slip in his resolve. Hands still shaken, Sherlock pulled the little pill bottle out of his coat pocket, dropping one into his palm and pressing it into John's.

"What-"

"Take it. It'll help with your healing rate." He kept them around for Lestrade in case he came by injury on the cases Sherlock accompanied him on. The suppressant had a way of dampening the natural accelerated healing rate of drevins, and these pill Sherlock had devised helped counteract that.

"M' fine. Already said."

"You're not. Just take it, John." He listened, oddly enough, swallowing the pill in one try and settling back on the seat with an exhausted huff. John rubbed hopelessly at his shoulder, taking to staring out the window and wincing every so often, dejection written in his face. Sherlock gritted his teeth, willing himself to not care. He shouldn't want to apologize, shouldn't care that John was bleeding and hurting. He did though, overwhelmingly.

Sherlock shifted in his seat, reaching out to touch John despite himself, offer some sort of comfort, but he drew back with a yelp, arms searing with pain from the movement.

"Your arms!" John exclaimed, finally noticing. Sherlock did too, not even being aware of the sting in them. His wrists and arms were sliced to hell from where he had grappled with the feral. The shirt would be ruined, but Sherlock had hardly cared about that.

"Nothing but a few scratches." He assured, but John merely rolled his eyes.

"Oh, don't give me that bullshit." They had pulled up to Mycroft's, Sherlock paying the driver before being dragged inside. Immediately, he was deposited upon the sofa in the main lounge, John disappearing for a short moment to grab the medicine kit. He went to work immediately, cleaning Sherlock's lacerations methodically, hardly pausing in his ministrations but once to adjust his kneeling position to take the weight off of his ankle.

"You worry about me." Sherlock stated. It was obvious, but needed to be put out there.

"You're very good at getting into danger, Sherlock Holmes." It was said with an air of familiarity that Sherlock couldn't place, but it settled warm within him.

"I have Mycroft to worry about me."

"Well, now you have me too." John said, finally looking up from Sherlock's now cleaned and bandaged arms. He smiled to Sherlock, a simple thing, one that Sherlock returned with a disbelieving chuckle. "Beside, Mycroft's not doing the best job at keeping you from getting eaten, is he?"

"No, I suppose not. Though I doubt he could keep up with me as well as you do, given his recently expanded waist." This received him a snort, and Sherlock, stunned that he had made someone laugh, joined in as they both dissolved into a fit of giggles. They had both survived, were wounded and exhausted for their time, but were very much alive, and that was enough to keep them laughing until long after their sides had begun to burn with the effort.

It was nice; he hadn't laughed like this in so long he'd almost forgot the feeling. Once their laughing had died down, Sherlock found himself unsure of what to do, John still breathless with his cheeks pink from the effort, kneeling before him. Sherlock was caught by the view of him, his John, smiling and still thrumming with giggles. John may have been bruised, the side of his face still covered in his own blood, but in that moment, there was nothing else Sherlock wanted to gaze upon.

John must finally noticed his stare, and the way their hands were held together, for he flinched, startled.

"Sorry." He pulled away, straightening, and Sherlock was gripped with a need to grab him back, to kiss him. It was a vice, a force which pushed him to do just that, yet he held back.

"It's fine." Sherlock mumbled instead, looking elsewhere. What was happening to him? When had he begun to think of John as his in the first place?

"Oh, damn it." Sherlock heard before John fitted their mouths together in a firm, yet gentle kiss. Startled at first, Sherlock grabbed John's good shoulder, pulling him closer to the point where he almost collapsed into his lap. Sherlock didn't care, however, as a hand tangled into his hair and their lips continued to press together. The pure want that flooded him was frightening in its intensity when John made a needy little sound, Sherlock's fingers slipping from his shoulder, down his side to his hip in an effort to get John between his now spread knees.

They broke apart, Sherlock uttering John's name before leaning back in to steal one last kiss before John could even think to pull away. He craved this, needed it, and John was more than willing, pupils blown wide and whimpering when Sherlock pressed his lips to his jaw, his throat, the pale skin where he'd worn a collar.

The front door opened, a sound so thunderous it tore them apart, staring in that general direction in nervous fear. John stepped away, flushed and eyes darting everywhere but to Sherlock.

"Right, that was- that was, um," He stammered, scratching at his neck while Sherlock tried put his hair back into some semblance of normality. "Sorry." John finished, fleeing the room before Sherlock could get a word in edgewise. Mycroft passed John on his way out, looking him over with some bemusement before noticing Sherlock still sitting dazed upon the sofa.

"Sherlock. You're back." His brother's surprised words were enough to snap him out of it as he stood up. Sherlock approached him, indicating they needed a private word and Mycroft led him to his office, where as soon as the door shut, he rounded on his brother. Back to the case at hand.

"There are tunnels under the prison, leading back into Alckos, though I'm sure you already knew that." Mycroft set his face to a stern expression. "That's where you just were, at a meeting as to what to do about it." Mycroft took his customary seat behind his desk, waiting for Sherlock to continue. When he did not, his brother sighed.

"Yes, of course. The escape system is a well-kept secret, in that it is not a secret. The Council has been spreading the rumors to keep people from looking in the right spots. Unfortunately, no one is allowed in there anymore and my fellow Council members have decided to continue that tradition, as they find that problems with drevin are low on the list of things to deal with."

"What did they think of you already sending someone to investigate?" Mycroft gave him no answer, just continued to stare, a pointed, expecting expression set in his brow. He had missed something along the way. "They don't know I was there. The Council believes that only the guards and the police have been to the location. How much are they going to pay Lestrade for his silence?"

"A handsome fee, let me assure you. Now, I must insist that you do not go into the tunnel system. I cannot stop you, however, if you were to stumble upon an entrance. Or get your hands on detailed blueprints of the layout underneath the city left carelessly lying about on a certain date when I foolishly leave you alone with them." Sherlock stifled his own smile as Mycroft began scribbling down upon a scrap of paper. "Now, I would like to invite you over for dinner a few days from now. Will you be able to come?"

He slid the paper over to Sherlock, a date and a time accompanying it written upon it. Five days from now. Sherlock was nodding even before it was memorized in his head.

"I believe I could fit it into my schedule."

"Good. I will see you then. In the mean time, I trust you will scour the details I had John deliver to you earlier and I trust Lestrade will be able to provide something else to keep you busy as well." Mycroft could surely see that Sherlock had not touched his needle for at least three weeks, but his brother was ever the worrier.

"Goodbye, Mycroft." Sherlock left, headed out onto the streets, and fully prepared to wait the few excruciating days before he could finally delve into this new puzzle. He could do this; he had the will and the strength to do so.

Sherlock didn't see John before he exited the house, but he refused to let that bother him now.

* * *

**A.N.: **Working title for the chapter was 'That Was a Really Painful Errand (Mycroft, You Lazy Fuck)'. Alternative titles include 'Cockblocking' and 'Wow, Prison Guards Are Dicks'. See you next time~


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